#send to command prompt

[ujiki-oo]

Image generation AI + flickr + PopBox specialized functions

[wickerwax]

#16! You know who! ehehehe Obi-Wan x Your Choice~

#16

"Force, I'm so sorry, it'll be over soon, I promise," he said, voice strangling in his throat.

Cody, crimson-faced and eyes streaming, turned a tellingly blank look on him and Obi-Wan raised his hands as if to shield himself. He tried to swallow the laugh down again but it was climbing higher in his chest, determined.

"You said you liked spicy, Cody, I didn't think - why would you ask for extra hot?" The laugh escaped as he passed over the second glass of blue milk to his poor dear Commander. "I'm accustomed to trusting your analysis of the situation, my dear, but I'll have to think twice on spice levels apparently."

The second glass clunked empty to the tabletop. Voice absolutely wrecked, Cody growled, "I have no idea what you're talking about sir, this was the desired outcome."

Feel free to send in prompts from the list! <3

[kharmii]

not sure if you have noticed but there is someone in the submas tag whacking the beehive with some mean sounding posts and honestly I think it's hilarious and I'm all in for it.

The fandom bullies need to be pushed off their high horses and brought back to reality that they are just some rude bullies on the internet harrassing people for having a different opinion on fictional characters

And honestly the person is also right: they are frustrated because Ingo in LA took a lot of the shine off the original cast of the game. It is a tragedy he's there but it's also a shame the other cast gets sidelined so much.

And the fandom makes it difficult for others to enjoy the content. It's basically that bird meme with the crow being submas fandom being so obnoxious and loud the other part of the LA fandom gets totally overshadowed.

And I say this as a submas fan. I love the twins a lot. But the fandom is on the brink of becoming unbearable. At least the loud annoying obnoxious part, I actually think the "unpopular" side is much more calm, chill and friendly. And much less in your face.

The fandom needs to get down off their high horse and become a more calm fandom again.

I didn't get along with either side of the fandom, and truth be told, I think a lot of them are the same group of cowards and hypocrites playing politics. This fandom is smaller than I thought. Recently, someone on the crazytrain tag inadvertently let me in on the spice Twitter of one of the very first antis who blocked me. The twitter has 'Proshitters DNI' on their pinned post, (hurr durr durr, get it? Pro SHITTERS. How cleever..) and yet the whole blog is full of fat furries with top surgery scars. FOR SURE that person has a blankshipping side blog FOR SURE.

Side note: I'm into men, but Rule 63 isn't bad if the female version is hot. There's nothing grosser, however, than seeing a male character made into a fat gross furry with top surgery scars and a vagina. IDC about your trans representation. That's GROSS. IDG why trans is such a prevalent social contagion when it's represented in a way that makes me throw up in my mouth a lil like, ..ew..ew..ew..ew..EWWW!!1!1 Why would you wreck him like that?!

Nobody on earth wants to see that shit unless they are into that specific fetish. I doubt even trans males want to see that shit. Hey, you want to be a real male, right? That's the ideal right? Then represent yourself as an actual male and not a gross looking morbidly obese mutilated biological female with a rank dog's head. Fandom is supposed to be escapism, so spare me your harsh, repulsive reality.

Anyway, not only does that person have a side blog, but I'll bet they were on the blankshipping tag putting the most stupid of stupidest head canons out there, like 'RICH WIDOW OMEGAVERSE INGO, YO!!' Where Omega Ingo is yeeted to Hisui, and everybody assumes his alpha (his own brother) is dead because his werewolf bite mark is fading. Everybody in Hisui is pressuring him into choosing a new mate so he can crank out a litter of ass-puppies from his bunge-womb and save Hisuian society from a population crash (Omegaverse totally isn't dog-fucking, but like all the terminology is dog-related).

Almost everybody in the blankshipping tag was into Omegaverse or general werewolf bullshit, so don't even act like you don't know what I'm referencing unless you joined this fandom last week. Other than that, it was annoying when people would use their autism to be obnoxiously antisocial (I only want 'likes' or conversations in tags), or like when people had an issue with me reposting slim beautiful bishounen twins from Asian artists off Pixiv or Twitter. People have been doing that since Tumblr began, -there are entire blogs devoted to it- and yet it only became a problem when I started doing it.

*checks* I think I found the blog this ask was referencing. It's a fun blog because it gets people talking. That and Emmet month has the fanart picking up. My drafts are packed. There's a lot I disagree with though, like how Ingo overshadows the other characters and makes them less relevant. Actually, people being into the Train Twins might make the PLA characters MORE relevant. PLA might have been a forgettable game to some people, but love for submas angst made the other characters grow on them.

Also, they complain that the PLA tags on AO3 are either full of Train Clown fics or Volo x underaged Akari. In the absence of the twins, Volo x Akari would be the ONLY thing you'd see on AO3. You'd probably see even less of the other characters. The Volo betrayal might be the most interesting part of the game for most people. -So many people got taken in by how he pretended to be your friend, tried to get Giratina to kill you, then made you feel sorry for him at the end.

That last part was a guess, btw. I've read very little of both Submas and Volo fan fiction on AO3 outside of the specific ships I'm into, and I've read very little of those too. Most fan fiction comes across as dismal and unpleasant, so I make sure not to read it. That's the responsible thing to do. If you read something in a description you don't like, then don't read it. IE: Not once have I ever clicked on an Omegaverse after holding the bridge of my nose and reading the description of what it is. It's still fun to take the piss though, like....hey maybe people would write more Adaman x Irida -or- Commander Kamado x Beni if there wasn't so much RICH WIDOW INGO MAKES A NEST TO PLANT HIS ASS-PUPPIES INTO11!!1!!!

Art credit: ばた@bataabiiru Twitter.

[myficprompts]

wait okay hear me out but a kanthony wwe (pro wrestling) au

i was a huge wwe fan as a kid in the 2000s so a lot of things regarding ruling has probably changed but idc for this

ANYWAY edmund bridgerton was the wrestler, like gave wrestling legitimacy and put it on the map because of his talents, until his untimely death and all anthony has been trying to do since he first stepped into the ring with his father is try to live up to his legacy

charlotte decides to change things up, reform Anthony’s image and boost him, and so she gives anthony a manager/on-screen future girlfriend and she picks one of the two sisters she just signed — edwina

kate has her own storyline about gunning for a chance at the woman’s championship while fuming off-screen because she thinks anthony is blurring lines of on-screen and off-screen with edwina and she heard rumors of him making his way through the company and he will 🙅‍♀️ not 🙅‍♀️ do that her to sweet and young and innocent baby sister

so they argue backstage

and charlotte’s cameras catch it post-show

and hence charlotte plots for chaos going forward (edwina and kate are women’s tag team partners and they get anthony as a manager because of the anthony-edwina deal, edwina heel (bad guy/antagonist) turn against kate mid match, backstage segment of anthony comforting kate, kate and anthony becoming mixed tag team partners, both of them going for their individual title chances, etc., etc.)

[ceilidho]

prompt: you and Price get in an accident (1.6k)

-

He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.

A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started. 

So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you. 

Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.

Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well. 

“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.

A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable. 

He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town. 

But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles. 

“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.

You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay. 

“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you. 

And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in. 

He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it. 

He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong? 

“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”

Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.” 

“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”

You sniff. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?” 

You nod. 

“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”

That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way. 

Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history. 

John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car. 

“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there. 

“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”

“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck. 

That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.

You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.

John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed. 

Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side. 

You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow. 

“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”

“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you. 

John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry.

[reignpage]

♱ In which boyfriend!choso can't keep still long enough to last a punishment

“Don’t move, Cho,” you remind him.

He whines. Bare and standing, you’re free to kneel before him and suck at his leaking, throbbing tip. Your boyfriend can do nothing but hope he doesn’t shudder too much whilst you tongue his swollen slit and milk his length with a tight fist. 

“Baby, please. I can’t. You’re being mean a-and cruel.”

Admittedly, you are being cruel – he can’t touch you, can’t make commands, and cannot, under any circumstances, let that glass cup balancing on his head drop. The pigtailed bastard deserves it after he tried sending a video of you getting your back blown out to your shameless ex, who wouldn’t stop texting you, only to end up sending it to your mother instead. 

Cupping his heavy balls in one palm, you massage the pair, feeling the panty-soaking heat in them all while they promise to fill your stomach with his salty cum. For someone complaining about how much he hates this punishment, he sure is using up a lot of energy to keep his head up and still. Abs flexing, you can’t help but rake your long nails down the sculpted muscles. He shivers and gasps. 

“I already -ngh!- said I’m s-sorry. Just take it off me and let me fuck you.”

Very tempting. Unfortunately for him, and your greedy pussy, he rarely ever gets his way with you. So, with a mouth full of his pulsating cock, you say, barely coherent, “Nope! You’re just gonna -mmm quit moving- have to man up and take your punishment like a good boy.”

A fat droplet of precum slides down your throat. Hmm, he sure does love being called a good boy. How sad. 

Your arm stretches up his torso all so you can tweak the piercing on his blushing brown nipples. He doesn’t say anything when you slap his ass too, though he doesn’t need to – the sudden tightening of his ball sack says enough. Thighs begin to shake. Fists clench so tight his knuckles turn white. His jaw hangs. Any second now, he’ll burst in your mouth. For his own good, he better not drop the glass. You’ll make him clean it up with your hot pink vibrator tied against his frenulum, which he has grown much too familiar with over the years. Maybe that’s what he’s hoping for. 

“My ex was never so pathetic,” you muse. “When my misbehaved boyfriend is struggling over such a simple task, it makes me miss hi–HMPH!”

Choso growled and grabbed your head with both hands, vein in those huge biceps flexing. Something animalistic flashed in those blown out eyes. That’s all the warning you got before he shoved his cock deeper down your throat, filling you up so manically. He doesn’t waste a single second before ramming inside your mouth and whimpering at the wet friction. The glass shatters in the background. You can’t even get a word out to complain because he’s pounding your throat like he’s trying to kill you. 

“You’re -oh fuck!- mine,” Choso growls. Grunting and staring up at the ceiling, too stimulated when he looks down at you, you watch his Adam’s apple bob. Your eyes roll back. He looks so pretty desperately chasing his release and using you as a glorified fleshlight. “I’ll kill anyone who -hah- t-tries to take you.”

Those are his last words before he blows a scalding load into your stomach. You haven’t even swallowed and he’s already lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder. When you bounce on the bed, your glare prompts an answer out of him.

“I didn’t want you to cut your pretty feet.” He presses a sloppy kiss against the sole of each of them. Then, he brings one to rub at his burning, hardening dick, moaning like a whore as he stares down at you with desire, love, and obsession radiating from every pore. “My girl’s gotta look her best for the video I’m sending to that loser, right?”

You sigh. “Whatever. Just make sure you don’t send it to my mother again.”

Choso pouts. 

“Stop bringing that up; it’s embarrassing.” Climbing over your body, he sucks at every inch of skin he can before the need to kiss you overwhelms him. “Ugh. She heard me call you mommy.”

[kurokawaia]

HICKEY, PLEASE? 彡 Dabi, Aizawa, Hawks

| MDNI - 18+ | WARNINGS :: bakugou x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader, dabi x fem!reader, x fem!reader, shoto x fem!reader, implied! virgin! reader / innocent! reader, heavy sexual tension and suggestive dialogue, experienced partner x shy partner, marking, d/s undertones, praise kink, light begging, teasing, slight possessiveness, size kink? + more? MINI ONESHOTS. total wc :: 2.5k+

SYNOPSIS. Asking mha men (Dabi, Aizawa, Hawks) for a hickey for the first time. (this is inspired buy a smau prompt by @nanaslutt )

DABI

You didn’t say anything, not directly. But Dabi knew the look on your fac, the way your eyes lingered on him, a little too long, when he passed by. You were fidgeting more than usual, tugging at the hem of your shirt like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite bring yourself to.

Dabi could practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of you, but you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of outright asking for anything. Not yet.

He leaned back on the couch, stretching out lazily. You were sitting across from him, legs crossed, head resting on your hand, eyes flickering nervously toward him whenever he caught you. And when he finally did he let a smirk fall upon him as he watched your face flush in embarrassment, "You look like you wanna say something. Or maybe you’re just too shy?"

You blinked, looking away quickly, but Dabi could see the pink creeping up your neck. You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt again, eyes glancing back at him. You didn't respond, but that was enough for him.

"You’re acting like a brat," Dabi mused. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

Your cheeks burned as you hesitated, and Dabi watched the way you shifted uncomfortably. It was cute, too cute. "Nothing…" you muttered. He raised an eyeborw. "If you’re not gonna tell me, you know I’m just gonna have to figure it out myself."

You froze. It wasn’t hard for Dabi to see through your act. He knew you were trying to keep your thoughts hidden, but you couldn’t hide the way your body was responding to him.

He leaned forward slowly, watching you flinch as his gaze softened and then hardened again. "You’re nervous," he observed you, enjoying the way you were getting nervous. "But you want something, don’t you?"

Your mouth went dry, but you kept your eyes lowered, too embarrassed to admit it.

"C'mon, you can tell me, doll," Dabi hums in your ear, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you flush to his side, and you couldn't help but let out a breathy sigh the moment his lips skim down the nape of your throat.

With a small nibble of your lip, you confessed, "I was just thinking about it and people say it feels really good... and-" Dabi tuned you out as his thoughts slowed down, what was going on in that pretty little head of yours because it was about to make him go feral "-I was wondering if you could give me a hickey."

"Hickey?" Dabi’s tone was almost casual, but the way he leaned closer made the words feel like a command.

You though you said it outright, now that he said it, it felt like the air around you had thickened. "I-"

"Tell me," he cut in quietly, and you shivered as he closed the gap between you againt, his breath warm against your ear. "You want me to mark you, don’t you? To let everyone know you’re mine?"

You were caught. You felt your heart race, your cheeks flush with heat. You couldn’t answer. Not directly. But you nodded, just barely enough for him to notice. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding to your jaw and tilting your face up. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Now hold still for me."

He didn’t wait for more permission before he was on you, his mouth hot against the delicate skin of your neck. The first touch was soft, teasing, just a feather-light brush of his lips over the sensitive flesh. You gasped, barely able to control the shaky breath that escaped you.

Dabi chuckled lowly. "You want it harder, don’t you?" His voice was a low tone as his lips pressed more insistently against your skin, and you moaned softly, not daring to move as he knew exactly what you wanted. 

He pulled away just enough to admire the flush spreading across your skin, his fingers tracing the outline of your neck, where he could already feel the warmth of his mark beginning to take shape. Dabi's grip on your waist was tightening, as if you were about to slip away from him and his touch combined with how his lips felt on your body was enough to make you numb of the feeling. "You want everyone to know you're mine, don't you?" he mumurs and you could feel his patience running thinner. 

You nodded, feeling that aching pull in your chest, wanting him, but still too shy to ask.

"Good," he whispered, before he descended again, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck just before he bit down gently. The pain was brief, but it was enough to make your breath catch.

He pulled back after a moment, watching the dark bruise form, before he took a step back and leaned against the couch. "There," he muttered, admiring the mark he left on you. "Now you’re mine for everyone to see."

You couldn’t speak. You were too lost in the haze of sensation, your heart racing, skin tingling. Dabi ran a hand through his hair, watching you carefully. "I think you needed that. But don’t think you’re getting away with just one."

AIZAWA

You didn't realise, but you have been squirming around for the past five minutes as you lay beside Aizawa. Both of you are nestled under his blanket, your curled agasint his chest as he lazily combs his fingers through your hair slowly, trying to help you to fall asleep. It was working, at the start, not until you remembered something you saw today. 

Your cheeks are flushed red, as you fiddle with the hem of his sweats, he doesn't mind, but he really wants to know what you are thinking about that has you all fidgety. Your heart thuds a little harder the longer you stay quiet. You want to ask, you really do, but you're nervous. You know that Aizawa won't judge anything you say, maybe a little joke and tease, he would never ridicule you. 

However, the words can't come out as easily as they should, not when you've been daydreaming about it all day like some lovesick little thing. Aizawa let out a low hum, he couldn't take it anymore. "You're thinking too loud," he says in a quiet tone, making sure not to jump you out of your thoughts too fast.

You could feel your cheeks burning even more as you hid your face in his shirt. Inhaling the soft, clean smell of laundry detergent and faint hints of vanilla, from you, of course. This is what managed to calm you. Well, only just a little bit.

"M'not thinking anything," you mumble, obviously lying, you can't slip anything past him. 

Aizawa hums, he doesn't like to push answers out of you, he never does, but you know that he is waiting for a truthful reply. 

You take a breath, lifting your head from his chest, "Shou'...?" Your voice comes out in a whisper so quiet you're surprised he heard you.

He tilts his head slightly to look at you, hair falling over his tired eyes. "Yeah?"

As long as you say it, it's fine. You don't think you could make yourself look him in the eyes as you say it. 

“Uhm… could you…” Your fingers twist tighter on the hem of his sweats. “Could you maybe… give me a… h-hickey?”

"Look at me," Aizawa encourages gently. You glance up shyly, blinking at him through your lashes. You feel so silly. But something about the way he’s looking at you makes you melt. “Say it again,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”

“I… I want you to give me a hickey…”

His eyes were half-lidded. He’s quiet for a moment. And then he hums again, deeper this time, like he’s pleased with you. He has told you multiple times that you don't need to feel embarrassed talking to him about stuff like this. 

“You want me to mark you,” he says more than asks. “Let everyone see who you belong to.”

You nod, heart racing. He shifts, his hand sliding up to gently cup the side of your throat. Not tight, just enough to hold you still. To make you feel how big his hands are. How much control he has. And how careful he is with it. And Lord, you loved how it made you feel. 

“Where do you want it, sweetheart?”

Your eyes dart down to your collarbone. A vulnerable little spot that would peek out if you wore a tank top tomorrow. He chuckles softly, "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you, dirty girl," he degrades softly and a heat began to grow between your legs. You couldn't even answer him, you're already trembling from how he's making you feel. He smirks, just a little. "Stay nice and still, sweetheart."

And then his mouth is on your skin, warm, slow, open, and you whimper when his teeth scrape lightly along your collarbone, followed by the soft, aching pull of his lips as he sucks your skin into bruising heat. It's overwhelming your senses with heat, and it feels so good. You feel like you’re burning and melting at the same time.

"That’s it," he murmurs against your throat. “So sweet for me..."

HAWKS

The evening started like no other. You were curled up next to Hawks, his wing holding you close to him as both of you watched a movie. Keigo had an arm around your shoulder as you snuggled closer into him, his finger massaging your scalp, running through your hair. 

You feel safe with Keigo, and you couldn't ask for anything else. He never pressured you to do anything you weren't comfortable with, and you love him for that. 

However, something was pressing heavily on your mind, which left you aching. You tapped restlessly agasint Kiego's shirt, mindlessly as you shift every so often. Hawks knew something was up, but he really didn't want to press it out of you. Every time he took a glance at you, you quickly looked away, trying to suppress the urge gnawing at your stomach.

You knew what you wanted, but you didn't know how to ask for it. 

Hawks couldn't take it anymore, letting out a soft sigh, hand moving from your hair to soothingly rub your shoulder, he says, "You're fidgeting a lot, baby? Got something on your mind?"

Your cheeks began to heat up with embarrassment, and you avoided his gaze, aiming to look at his shirt rather than him. "Would it be... I... Could you give me a hickey?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you nervously bite your bottom lip. 

"A hickey, huh?" Keigo teases, holding you tighter as he teases you, "You're asking me to mark you, baby? To make sure everyone knows you're mine? You want that?" Everyone who fell out of his mouth only furthered your embarrassment.

You didn't know what you were expecting. The teasing was a given, but it felt a lot more embarrassing when he actually said it out loud. Although his teasing made your breath catch in your throat, it was this that made your body heat up in places you weren't used to.

A playful frown makes its way onto his face as he lowers his head to meet yours. "C'mon, baby, what's wrong? What do you want?"

You said softly, “I… I want to feel it. Want to feel you. My best friend was talking about how good it felt and I just," you continued, going on a whole ramble but that was all going in ear and out the other to Keigo, all he was thinking about was was making sure he stayed under control. 

He leaned in slowly, interrupting your ramble, causing you to freeze when you felt his lips brushing against your ear. "You’re so cute when you’re shy, baby. You want me to make you feel good?"

You bit your lip, too nervous to answer, but he didn’t wait for you to respond. His fingers trailed along your jaw, gently tilting your head back just enough for him to press his lips to the curve of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin and it made a dull throb slide down between your legs.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing against the delicate skin below your ear. “Tell me you want it, baby bird. Say it.”

You nodded again, a soft whimper escaping you as his lips hovered just above the spot where you wanted him most. He could tell you were practically trembling under his touch.

“Yeah?” He smiled against your skin, teasing you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

The pressure in your chest was unbearable. You wanted to ask for it, needed to ask for it, but the words got stuck in your throat. He noticed the hesitation, a quiet laugh escaping him as he kissed the corner of your mouth, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’m right here. Just say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath hitched. This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for. You gathered all your courage and whispered, “Please, Kei'… I want you to, too. Please."

You inhale a shaky breath, feeling a sly smile agasint your neck, pushing down a moan that was about to fall out of your lips. "Such a good girl," he praises and a breathy exhale is finally made by you.

He didn’t waste another second. His lips pressed to your neck, sucking gently at first, letting his tongue graze the sensitive skin there. You gasped at the feeling, his warmth, the pressure of his mouth as it moved lower, his hands tightening around your waist to keep you steady. You could feel him smiling against your skin as he worked, knowing how badly you wanted this, how much it was affecting you.

"You like that?" Keigo groans agasint your skin. "You like me marking you?"

You couldn’t form words, just nodding as your heart pounded. His lips continued their slow, steady journey down your neck, leaving a hot trail in their wake. Soft whimpers, the soft moans, any noise that came from you only made Keigo more desperate for you, gods, you sounded so sweet, so innocent.

Finally, after teasing you with just enough pressure to keep you on edge, Keigo sucked hard at a spot just below your ear, marking you with a deep, dark bruise. You let out a soft cry, your fingers gripping his shoulder as your body involuntarily arched toward him.

He pulled back slowly, admiring the mark he left on you. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this, baby,” he whispered, sighing deeply, feeling his bulge strain against his sweatpants. 

Your legs felt weak, the warmth between them now unbearable. "Kei'," you mumbled, flustered, not knowing what to say, too dazed. 

"Guess you did like it," he playfully hums, circling his arms around you as you make your way onto his lap, holding him close.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

There are so many grammar and spelling mistakes, I’ll edit this later x

[sakuravalenp]

Phantom letters - DPXDC PROMPT

The bats wake up one day to the internet going crazy; people around the world were getting letters from they're diseased loved ones. The reactions are mixed, from people being outraged for the "prank" to people crying in melancholy at getting closure.

All the letters have something in common: They're closed with a green sealing wax that had an stylize DP and the name Phantom beneath it. Posts about the cards were using the # Phantom Letters.

The bats are discussing the viral posts in the cave when Alfred comes holding a basket filled with letters, announcing they were left at the doors. The letters had the sealing wax that they recognize from the posts. Checking the cameras they can see how they glitch before the basket appears.

Alfred starts to distribute the letters that had only one destinatary. Letters from each Thomas and Martha to both Bruce and Alfred. Letters from each John and Mary to Dick. A letter from Catherine to Jason. A letter from the Drake's to Tim, and another one to Bruce.

Once they had calmed down enough from the shock, Alfred proceeded to read the shared recipients. From Thomas and Martha to "The grandchildren we never got to meet." From John and Mary to "the family that took our little Robin in." Letters from Catherine to "My little boys family." The letters were directed to people the deceased didn't get to meet.

As much as the mere existence of the letters tugged at their hearts, they decided to not read them until they verified that the handwriting actually belong to the ones it claimed. They checked each letter, and in the end confirmed the letters were in fact from they're lost love ones.

After much discussion, each person makes the decision to read they're own letters later in private, and they proceed to read the ones that shared recipients out loud. The letter mentioned specifics like names and events that the deceased shouldn't have been able to know, including they're vigilante abilities, which had them pause each time to panic a bit. But what was more interested were certain pieces of the letters that mentioned a Prince Phantom.

"Prince Phantom said to don't mention things past our death, but it wasn't a command, so we're hoping this won't be much of a problem." - John and Mary

"I still can't believe Prince Phantom is letting us do this, but I'm so glad." - Catherine

It finally paints the mystery in a more concerning light when at the end of Thomas and Martha's letter there is a call for help.

"We're sorry for ending the letter on a serious tone, but seeing the kind of job you all get involved in, we wanted to ask: Could you please help Prince Phantom? Phantom had asked us to not give information about this, but he's so young, and has already been hurt so much. Please, check on Amity Park, Illinois."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Meanwhile, team Phantom has decided that they needed to get the news about the GIW out of Amity and ask for help. Two problems:

the GIW blocks any technological attempt made.

People might be afraid to learn that ghosts exist and side with the GIW.

As a way to deal with the public image, Phantom opens a possibility that the death have never had:

"All afterlives are open to write letters to their love ones that are still alive today. Nothing that includes threats, and don't go talking about the anti-ecto acts or Amity Park yet, we're trying to ease people into our existence first. Also, I know you all check on your love ones when the veil is thin, but please keep the things you shouldn't know out of the letters if possible. If you want your letter to be sent in the first batch, make sure to deliver your letter before the week ends."

Letters are a good way to reconnect people with the death, they aren't digital, and the GIW won't be able to intercept letters if they're send through inter-dimensional portals. Two birds in one shot.

[froggiequarium]

1.4k words nsfw; thigh riding w colonel caleb bc a friend of mine couldn't get it out of their head n now its in mine this is dedicated to my dear mely <3

-

something about the way you were acting today made caleb's eye twitch repeatedly.

he's not sure why you woke up today in such a mischievous mood, prompting you to tease him and press every one of his buttons all day long.

he was accustomed to this, in a way, but honestly at the end of the day—

he could only take so much.

he gave you a warning, one that held promise should you keep up your mischief.

"behave. don't make me say it again."

in response, you only gave a playful smile, nodding along to his words with clear intention of not following them.

caleb only chuckled to himself, mind already swimming with how he would deal with his disobedient adjutant later.

-

the colonel wasted no time, door just barely clicking shut before dragging you towards the sofa and plopping down on the cushions man-spread, tugging you down with him. your arms instinctively reach out for the first thing— in this case, his broad chest— to steady yourself while landing right on his lap, straddling one of his muscled thighs.

"it seems my adjutant decided to step out of line today. care to explain yourself?"

the tone he's using is the one he uses to command the fleet and speak to fellow crew members, dripping with authority and a show of his status. it makes your whole body hot having it directed solely towards you.

despite the sound of his voice sending arousal straight to your core, shiver running up your spine at the cold gaze he's giving you, a sly grin creeps its way onto your face as you trail your fingers up his torso.

"someone was so busy today, don't you think?"

your voice is as light as your touch. you peek up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze for just a moment before your eyes are back to following your movements.

truly, it was really something else when you got to see him act in his authority, and you wanted to see how much patience he'd learned to exercise after taking such a high-ranking position in the fleet.

a ghost of a smirk curls at the edges of his lips, and it takes everything in caleb to not shiver at your familiar touch, wanting nothing more than to flip you over and discipline his little adjutant right here on his living room sofa.

your faint touch is slow and teasing as you glide your fingertips towards his chest, voice dropping to something a little more sultry if not to highlight your underlying need.

"what are you going to do about it, colonel?"

the way you drag out his title so daringly gets him going, his gaze darkening in an instant at the tone of your voice and the cheeky look in your eyes.

you stretch your hands out fully, sliding them from his slightly-heaving chest and slowly upwards to plant them onto his broad shoulders.

without warning, his large hands are planted onto your hips. you have no time to process his hold on you before letting out an involuntary moan at the way he flexes his thigh, hands dragging your hips forward then quickly back at the same time.

"show some respect to the farspace fleet's colonel."

you shivered, body buzzing with excitement and arousal, feeling your panties getting wetter by the second under the skirt of your adjutant uniform.

you wait for just a moment, wondering if he'll do it again, wondering if he'll help you or go further when he speaks up again.

"what are you waiting for, adjutant?"

letting out a huff at the realization that he was going to watch you use him without helping, you grip his shoulders firmly as you begin rocking your hips back and forth on his strong thigh, chasing the momentary pleasure he'd granted to you just moments ago.

caleb watches as you desperately chase that high, hard-on bulging from his slacks the more you move back and forth, panting and whining for your release.

minutes pass and you can feel it, its so close, you're right on the brink, but you can't get there alone.

"caleb..."

"close already?" he almost sneers at you, tone between teasing and mocking.

"please... hah... wanna cum!"

you feel him grip your hips again, firmer this time, and relief fills your system at receiving his help again—

only to feel yourself stop completely in your place.

you let out a long whine, unable to move and satisfaction escaping your body in seconds as you realize:

he's holding you in place with his evol.

"hah, caleb!"

he was so cruel, you think, trying your best to spare him a glare, but appearing more desperate if anything after having your pleasure ripped completely away from you.

"don't give me that look. you asked for this, didn't you?"

his grip on your hips tightens, sure to leave bruises even through the fabric that covers them.

"do you think you really deserve it after your behavior today?"

he's stopped using his evol, but his hold is enough to keep you in place and do as he pleases with your body.

you moan at the sudden flexing of his thigh, fingers wrinkling the fabric of his uniform shirt from their grip.

"please..."

"you'll cum when i say you can."

his voice holds finality in its authority, leaving no room for argument as he begins dragging you back and forth over his thigh again, manipulating your pleasure and the pace at which you reach it.

but after a couple minutes of this you quickly grow impatient, already needy from chasing your previous high and wanting nothing more than to reach that peak again.

"faster... please, caleb—"

"disobeying again?" he questions curtly, slowing the drag of your hips as he speaks his next words.

"would you like me to stop?"

your eyes widen at the mere suggestion.

"no! no— i'm sorry.."

"sorry, what?"

"i'm sorry.... colonel."

"good girl."

at this, he decides to reward you, your body filling with pleasure at the increased pace caleb begins pushing and pulling your hips over his thigh while repeatedly flexing it.

"caleb.... caleb—!"

you're a panting mess, gaining some control and dragging your clothed heat over the slacks of his crisp uniform in time with his movements, feeling yourself finally begin to reach that high once more.

"close, i'm so close-"

"yeah? you wanna cum?" caleb pants, slowly beginning to losing his composure.

"please!"

he lets out a groan at your begging, watching your face contort into pleasure and desperation, waiting for him to tell you to let go.

a smirk tugs at his lips.

how pliant and obedient you get for him when he has you like this... he doesn't think he can ever get enough.

at yet another sound of your pretty whines filling the room, he concedes.

"cum for your colonel."

at his command, you let go with a drawn-out moan, soaking the pant leg of caleb's uniform, hips repeatedly rocking before slowing their movements as you ride out your high.

the man under you isn't faring any better, the wet patch through his slacks where his hard-on is still bulging clearly evident: the result of how much of an effect you have on him.

you've stopped moving now, seated on his lap while catching your breath, sparing a glance up at him. he really was beautiful like this.

figuring you both are done, you begin sliding your hands from their place on his shoulders when your wrists are suddenly held in place before you, startling you.

"ca-"

in a split second, you're flipped onto your back on the couch, surprised eyes wide and gazing up into caleb's dark-purple ones as he hovers over you, pinning your hands above your head with one of his gloved ones.

"did you think we were done? that you could just take what you want and leave?"

you swallow hard, eyes glued to his, breath hitching at the same tone.

"i'm not done with you yet," his voice is dark, need for you seeping through the cracks of his desire.

you glance down at the obvious bulge in his pants and subconsciously lick your lips at the sight.

he smirks at the action, free hand trailing down your body before pushing your ruined panties aside and, without warning, slipping two gloved fingers into your still-sensitive yet welcoming heat.

"a-ah— hah, caleb!"

"—so stay here and take it like a good girl."

with that, he swallows your moans in a hot, searing kiss to your lips.

it seems you might be in this spot for the whole night.

-

a/n: edited but also i have an eyepatch on (sensitive eye from earlier migraine) so if theres any typos blame that....

-

[rafecameronssl4t]

My girl, my business || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @drewstarkeynation

Summary: You could never brush off what Sarah did to you during your last year at Kook academy, even when you started to date her older brother.

Warnings: suggestive, swearing, Sarah is a bitch in this one soz,

Word count: 508

A/n: once again, summary is shit. Whats new 😔

MASTERLIST

Divider by @yoonitos

“Is your sister home?” you question Rafe, slipping into one of his shirts as he watches you from his bed. “Which one? I have two,” he replies, his tone practically dripping with smugness.

“You know exactly which sister I’m referring to, Rafe,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder as he chuckles, hands coming up behind his head as he leans against his bed frame. “What’s your problem with Sarah anyways?”

You throw Rafe a look, wondering if he was being serious. “Do you seriously not remember what happened when the cops got called at your sisters party that happened to be at my house?” Rafe pulls a face as he thinks for a second, “Oh, shit. Yeah. You got stripped of everything at school, didn’t you?” He snickers as you hurl a shirt in his direction, which he skillfully dodges.

“Not funny dickhead.” you huff, gathering your belongings from his side of the bedside table. “C’mon babe, you know I’m joking,” he says, taking your hands and drawing you close, planting a soft kiss on your lips, causing you to melt into him.

“And no, Sarah isn’t home. She hasn’t been since Tuesday. Probably off with those fucking pogues.” Rafe murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. You scoff, shaking your head incredulously, “Kook princess, my ass.” Rafe snorts at the rivalry between you and his sister.

~

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sarah’s voice slices through the air, grating on your nerves as you click the door shut behind you. You turn to face her, meeting her intense gaze head-on.

“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” you retort, your sarcasm dripping like honey from your lips, accompanied by a subtle frown as she watches you, arm tightly crossed.

“Oh, come on, Sarah,” you scoff, trying to downplay the obviousness of the situation, though her piercing gaze makes it clear that she’s not buying it for a second.

“I was fucking your brother.” You say casually, the words landing with a blunt force that leaves Sarah slightly taken aback. The raw truth hangs in the air, mingling with the tension between you both.

Sarah’s voice trembles with fury as she starts, “Get the fuck out of my house—” but Rafe’s voice cuts through the air, commanding and firm, “Watch your fucking tongue, Sarah.” His touch sends a shiver down your spine as his hands gently snake across your waist, his gaze piercing and cold as he fixates on her.

“This isn’t any of your business, Rafe,” Sarah snaps defiantly, her eyes flashing with anger. But Rafe only chuckles, his amusement tinged with something unsettling as he glowered at her.

“It kind of is. She’s my girl so she’s my business. So why don’t you run along with your little pogue friends and leave us alone, sound good? Good,” he says, his voice dripping with authority and finality. With a firm grip, he pulls you back into his room, leaving Sarah standing there, stunned and speechless

“I could’ve handled it, y’know,” you remark, tossing your keys and phone onto his bedside table. He turns you around to face him, a playful grin spreading across his lips. “Mhmm, I knew you could. Just wanted to yell at her for fun,” he says with a smirk, prompting a chuckle from you in response.

[tteotlma]

craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.  

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.  

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.  

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.  

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.  

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.  

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.  

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.  

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.  

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.  

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.  

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.  

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.  

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.  

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.  

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.  

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.  

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.  

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.  

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.  

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"  

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."  

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.  

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.  

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.  

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”  

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.  

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.  

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.  

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.  

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.  

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.  

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.  

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.  

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.  

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.  

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.  

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.  

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.  

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display—after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.” His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. ���Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

[rose24207]

Hi hi😻.. I can’t help it, I have another request 😗(these prompts are really good) anywayyy as you may know I’ll do mafia!Lando Norris x reader as always(I’m a simple girl😔) with these prompts:

22. "I found this note under my door. It says they’re watching me."

21. "There’s someone else in the house."

26. "I swear, that thing wasn’t there a second ago.“

28. "Whatever you do, don’t turn around."

where obviously someone breaks into there place, and in the end lando kills them(protecting his lady🤭). u obviously don’t have to do them I just wanted to send them to u lol, but if u do read this I just wanna say thank youu🫶🏼🤍

Are you hurt?

Summary: After a chilling note reveals you're being watched and an intruder invades your home, Lando arrives just in time to ruthlessly kill the attacker and protect you.

Genre: Angst, Mafia, Dark

Mafia!Lando x reader

TW: Mafia, gun, lando offs someone, breaking in, violence, fighting

A/N: Hello!! Ex-squeeze me? What do mean I don’t have to? I want to!! 🥰 English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist pt. 2

You almost missed it.

The small, folded note wedged under your door.

You frowned, bending down to pick it up, and as soon as you unfolded the paper, a chill crawled down your spine.

We‘re watching you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

This wasn’t some prank. It wasn’t paranoia creeping in.

You had been with Lando long enough to know what this meant.

Your hands trembled as you grabbed your phone and dialed his number. It rang twice before he answered.

"Angel?" His voice was calm, but you could hear the underlying alertness.

"Lando," you whispered, swallowing hard. "I found this note under my door. It says they’re watching me."

Silence.

Then, his voice dropped an octave, lethal and controlled.

"Where are you?"

"In the living room, I—"

Creak.

The sound sent a violent shiver down your spine.

It came from upstairs.

"Lando," your voice barely came out. "There's someone else in the house."

His chair scraped back. The faint background noise on the phone vanished.

"Get out." He didn’t yell—Lando never did when he was angry. His voice was quiet, clipped, and ice-cold. "Go through the back door. Now."

"I— I think they’re already coming down," you choked out.

More silence. Then, a single command:

"Stay on the phone with me."

Your breath came in quick, uneven bursts as you grabbed the closest weapon—a fireplace poker. Your grip was clammy, your hands shaking as you edged toward the kitchen.

Something felt off.

The air was too heavy.

You risked a glance toward the hallway.

A chair was knocked over.

You hadn't heard that happen.

Which meant—

"I swear, that thing wasn’t there a second ago," you whispered.

Lando's tone was razor-sharp. "Do not move."

Another creak. Closer this time.

And then—

A figure emerged from the shadows.

A man, dressed in black, face obscured by a mask. But the gleam of a knife in his hand was unmistakable.

"Whatever you do," Lando's voice came through the phone, controlled and deadly, "don't turn around."

Your grip tightened around the poker, chest heaving.

Too late.

The intruder lunged.

Adrenaline exploded through you. You swung blindly, striking his arm. He grunted but barely faltered, reaching for you again.

"Big mistake," the man sneered.

You wrenched away, sprinting toward the alarm panel—

But a hand clamped down on your wrist.

A sharp yank sent you stumbling, crashing into the dining table. The world tilted as you hit the ground, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You barely had time to react before he was towering over you, knife raised.

A deafening BANG shattered the air.

The man staggered.

Blood bloomed across his chest.

His body crumpled—just as Lando stormed through the door, gun still raised, his expression nothing short of murderous.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His nostrils flared as he took slow, deliberate steps forward, gun never wavering.

"Lando—" you started.

"Shh, angel," he murmured. His voice was eerily soft. "Not now."

The intruder groaned, barely clinging to consciousness, hand twitching toward his knife.

Lando scoffed, stepping on the man's wrist with brutal force, making him cry out.

"You picked the wrong house," he said coldly.

His boot pressed down harder. A sickening crack echoed through the room.

The intruder screamed.

Lando exhaled slowly, as if trying to control the bloodthirsty rage simmering beneath his skin. His eyes flicked to you, scanning for injuries.

"Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, throat tight.

Lando's jaw clenched. He crouched, grabbing the man's collar and yanking him upright.

"Who sent you?" His voice was death itself.

The man whimpered, blood dripping from his mouth.

Lando pressed the gun against his temple.

"Last chance."

The man barely managed to spit out, "You're already dead."

Lando smirked. "No. You are."

Then, without hesitation—

BANG.

The man's body slumped, lifeless.

Lando let him fall unceremoniously, the air thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder.

The silence was suffocating.

Then, in one swift motion, Lando turned back to you.

Before you could react, his hands were cupping your face, his eyes scanning yours, desperate, furious, terrified.

"I almost lost you," he whispered.

"You didn't," you murmured, placing your hands over his. "You got here in time."

He shook his head, exhaling shakily. "Not good enough." His thumb brushed against your cheek. "We're leaving. Tonight."

You frowned. "Lando—"

"I'm not arguing with you, angel." His voice was low, possessive. "This house is compromised. We’re moving. I don’t care what I have to burn down to keep you safe."

You swallowed hard.

Because when Lando Norris made a promise, he kept it.

And right now, he was promising one thing:

Whoever sent this man?

They were next.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren

[salem-s]

can you please write a rafe fic based on the song “back to friends”?

like they were exes turned to strangers but there’s sooo much tension and they’re obviously still sooo in love with each other. just angst vibes with maybe some suggestive fluff? idk

just a suggestion though totally understand if it’s too specific for you!

yes! when you sent this in i had no idea what song you were talking about LOL but now ive heard it and it’s so good. love this prompt!

BACK TO FRIENDS — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)

SYNOPSIS you and rafe have been broken up for months, and despite not seeing him since, you haven't stopped thinking about him. then, out of the blue, he's suddenly there at one of your parties: coy yet shy, a presence yet a ghost, looking at you as if he's never seen anything prettier. and all you can think is: what the fuck?

WARNINGS aaaannnngst (miscommunication tendencies is very high here, they’re both idiots), fluff, suggestive content and descriptions of smut. post-grad au, living in a city of your choice. ex!rafe is fun to write, but apologies because this isn't super edited.

WORD COUNT 8.1k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER back to friends by sombr

You've been single for six months.

Has it been easy? Absolutely not. Was it necessary? That's a bit subjective depending on who answers on the matter, but - of course - most of the time you'd argue no. Your ex would argue yes in a self-depricating sort of way. Part of you knew it was coming to a close in those final weeks, taking into account the way you drifted apart as one of life's natural tendencies.

You were heading in one direction. He was heading in another. There are so many things that he probably thought that he never spoke, especially with the way he hinted towards not being good enough for you, not being good enough to follow you into the next stages of your life. You, of course, knew that wasn't true, that it was his mind sending him into a spiral, not his heart. It ruptured your soul when the last image of him was his back towards you, not even having the gall to face you as he said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him after that.

So why the fuck is Rafe Cameron standing in your living room right now?

He looks good. Too good. The long locks that you used to toy with between your nimble fingers are gone, replaced with a slightly grown out buzz that suits him, makes him look more mature and grounded. A simple t-shirt adorns his torso, snug tight at the seams around his biceps, looking a little bigger than you last saw. He's clean cut, sleek in a way that makes your heart pound, and a head taller than everyone around him, commanding the room without even meaning to.

But his eyes tell a different story.

When those pretty blues meet yours, you see what he really feels: an emptiness and search for something to fulfill his soul, radiating a sadness to them that emulates the look of despair he had the last time you were with him. No one notices. He hides it well. But you were always able to read him like a book, to be able to pin point his emotion like it was your day job, to know how to approach him through various emotions to get him to feel better.

You, apparently, still can.

It's absolutely debilitating when you lock eyes across the room, and you can't even describe the weird feeling that settles in your gut. Is it anxiety? Dread? Excitement? It's a kettlebell in your stomach that only weighs more and more the longer you look at him, the more you register that Rafe Cameron, your ex and probably the only person you'll ever love, is standing in your living room in a state you never thought he'd be in with people you never associated him with.

First you feel shock. Then confusion.

How the fuck is he here? Who does he know? Did he - somehow - stumble upon this party in a stroke of pure luck and humiliation (on your part) or is this intentional? Does he know this is your apartment? Did he recognize the same decor that you had in your old place? Smell your favorite candle? See the furniture and overall mood of the house and think of you? Did he even know? How could he have?

It isn't until (some) of your questions are being answered when you spot another friend of yours, Wyatt, clap Rafe on the shoulder and whisper something in his ear, nodding in your direction and tugging him towards—

Fuck.

Tugging him towards you.

You wish you could move. Or do anything. Pretend to be caught up in a conversation with a friend or sneak out onto the fire escape that you can only access through your room. Anything would be better than this: simply standing in place and waiting for the inevitable. You're angry. Yet sad. Confused. You're mad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're sad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're confused that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you.

Before your brain can turn on and make a move, Wyatt's suddenly there with an audacious hand clapped on Rafe's shoulder and gently shaking it to emphasize the presence.

"Honey!” Wyatt chirps brightly (curse his ability to literally befriend a brick wall, and curse the fact that you can't hate him for doing this to you right now if you tried). "This is Rafe, the friend from Coastal that I was telling you about."

"Honey?" Rafe murmurs in surprise, and you nearly stop breathing at the fact that you're hearing his voice again. "This is Honey?"

Before your friend can explain the horrifically embarrassing story as to how you got that nickname that your friends use more than your actual name, you miraculously find your voice.

"And this is the friend from Coastal you were telling me about?" Your tone matches your ex's of surprise.

If Wyatt notices the clear apprehension between you two, he either doesn't notice or simply doesn't care enough to address it. With some sort of magic, he manages to smile wider.

"Yeah! Figured since you both went there, you might know the same people?" He offers innocently, darting his gaze cheerfully between you as if he's waiting for something magical to happen.

But it...doesn't.

Because you fucking laugh.

Right in Rafe's face. And it's out of disbelief (and slight drunkenness) that this is actually happening right now. Your good friend is introducing you to your ex, the same ex that you haven't spoken to (or much less heard from) in six fucking months. The same ex that you've been absolutely devastated over losing. The same ex that you've been attempting to find fragments of in different people, yet coming up short every single time and thus ruining the progression of your love life.

It's comical, really, it is. Because what are the odds of this happening? Of Rafe Cameron standing in your apartment, in a place you thought hidden well enough to shield you from the ghosts of your past? Of the mere concept that this is how you're seeing him again: flushed and drunk and having a great time at a party you organized. It's out of left field, completely throwing you off your game (if you even have one).

"Yeah," you manage to get out, "we know of each other."

Wyatt beams, and Rafe frowns, portraying the happy-sad theatrical masks to a fucking T.

Yet your friend takes that as a cue to pat Rafe's back, sending another knowing glance your way as if to say you're welcome! before disappearing into the party, chatting up another group of friends as if he didn't just cause a rapture in your brain. You let your gaze settling on your friend morphing into the crowd before glancing back at your ex.

Who's staring right at you.

The seriousness in his expression makes you falter slightly, not because of the intensity of it but because you just...miss him. You haven't seen him in so long, haven't been this close to him. If you wanted to, you could reach out and grab him, tether yourself to him, cling onto a bicep like you used to love doing, or sit snug under his arm and relish in the warmth he always unintentionally provided. But you can’t. Not anymore. He made that clear when he ended things with you: he wants nothing to do with you anymore, and that includes your touch.

"Why did you say that?" He asks gently, as if it's plaguing him. "Why didn't you tell him?"

Your expression must look whack, because you manage a confused smile and an arched brow, as if it's obvious. "Because I'm not about to re-hash the semantics of our break up in the middle of the function right now?"

The tone isn't nice, but it isn't mean either. It is indifferent. Tired. As if you've just picked up the pieces of your heart that shattered with him leaving you, only to have the cracks form again and threaten to burst through the seams of the fragile tape you used to stitch your heart back up. It's a bit crazy for him to ask that, you think. Because why would you bring it up? Wyatt doesn't know any better, as the faux introduction was done out of pure innocence, so why damper the mood with the truth?

Rafe pauses at your words, and the longer he's silent the more you feel stupid. You feel stupid that you're essentially backed into a corner, drawing shapes in the wooden floors with the tops of your toes to keep from slipping, swishing around a drink that has one small sip left in it. It's almost worse that he's silent. You want him to scream. To get mad, for whatever reason. Because then it'll be easier for you to pull away, to detach, to fucking move on.

But he doesn't. He's gentle with you. He always was. Never raised his voice or acted out. He was just...Rafe.

He still is, apparently.

"How have you been?" He manages to ask after a moment's silence, opting for the safe choice of not going on a tangent based on your snotty response.

What do you think? You want to snap.

But you don't. You simply shrug. "Fine. You?"

Rafe furrows his brows, as if his answer is obvious yet prolonging the response to see if you really know, or are asking out of courtesy. You're asking because it's the script you normally follow, when someone asks how you are you typically ask them back. It's not rocket science. It doesn't need to be complicated. God, why is he making it complicated?

Why is he looking at you like that?

"Are you going to answer, or..?" You trail off, searching his eyes for any sort of answer but coming up short.

Your tone is detached, as if you're talking to an old friend who you can joke and kid around with. Not the guy you've loved for years. The wince on his face reminds you of that, that you’re not joking around with just anyone. You’re with him. You’re acting like nothing is wrong, like these past few months have been a walk in the park. It’s funny that you’re going at him as if you haven’t shared your deepest vulnerabilities with him beneath soft sheets that smell of him.

Although Rafe has absolutely no room to guilt trip you right now. He orchestrated this. He wanted this. Not you.

You speak before tears can start brimming your waterline. “Whatever. See you around.”

You’re quick to duck around his audaciously broad figure, beelining towards…anywhere that isn’t here and anywhere that doesn’t have him infiltrating your senses, dulling you down. A flicker of anger crosses across your heart, because how dare he? How dare he show up here (even if he didn’t actually know this is your place, the meaning still applies) and send you all these weird signals? How dare he look at you as if he’s in pain?

Because this is his fucking fault. He broke it off, he separated himself when he didn’t need to, he lost faith in himself as a partner. You loved him through his faults, and you still do, yet that still wasn’t enough to make him change his mind. All him. Not you.

Rafe says your name quietly.

Like an idiot, you turn. Despite the thumping bass and the high pitched laughter wafted through each room, you hear him loud and clear. His blue eyes are too pretty, too intently focused on you, too…everything. It’s almost painful to look at, to see the reminder that you lost him, you lost the privilege of staring shamelessly at those pretty, pretty blues.

“You look beautiful,” he says ardently, low in a tone just reserved for you.

But it only upsets you further, makes your heart split in quarters after he split it in half six months ago. You hate how sincere he sounds, as if he’s been itching to say it all this time. Instead of a compliment, it comes across as a reminder that he left.

All you can do is shake your head. “Fuck you, Rafe.”

And you’re disappearing into the party before he can object.

You’re grateful that your room is somewhat secluded from the communal spaces.

It’s especially forgiving in this instant, when you’re cozied up alone on the fire escape that someone can only access from your bedroom, hugging your knees and staring out onto the cityscape with a scowl so deep one may think the horizon wronged you. A joint that was supposed to calm your racing heart lays untouched next to your lighter, and you don’t even have the gall to light it and try and forget about the events of tonight. Knowing yourself and knowing your brain, the weed will only tenfold the nagging emotion.

You fucking miss him. And you fucking hate him. And you fucking love him.

It caught you immensely off guard to see him again, much less standing in your living room and talking with your new friends without them even knowing who he is, without knowing what he did. The result in your brain is immediate: you miss him. You didn’t realize how much you did until you saw him.

You miss the way he’d always wake up before you, either getting up to brew your favorite coffee blend or simply waiting for you to wake in his arms, tracing idle fingertips along your smooth skin or kissing your hairline. You miss how he always made you laugh, no matter how grumpy or irritated you were at him or at the world. You miss his charm, the way he’d always flirt with you regardless of how long you’d been together, pretending to not know you in public just to ask you out all over again. You miss how he knew you, how he knew your favorite things and brought you your favorite foods and candies, how he’d buy you silly trinkets he saw in a store window simply because it reminded him of you, how he’d know how to approach you when you’ve had a bad day. You miss how he loved you, like there was nothing else around him worth his time.

The tears don’t come. They almost do, but when the time comes for them to fall, they just…don’t.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve already used all of them on him. Or because you’re tired. Or because you’re simply sitting with a pit in your stomach about the fact that he’s here, he’s actually here, probably making friends and slowly integrating himself in the life you wanted him to be in from the start.

God, feelings fucking suck.

“Hey.”

The voice (the all too familiar voice) startles you, snapping you out of your thousand yard stare to whip your head around to face the culprit. You blink dumbfounded when your eyes meet his pretty blues, yours definitely blown wide simply at the mere thought of someone disturbing your fire escape time, a fire escape hidden from the party.

Of course, it’s him. How did he even find you?

You didn’t even hear the window crack open. Nor your bedroom door. You didn’t think someone would have the audacity to enter someone else’s bedroom without knocking, or perhaps he did and you simply didn’t hear it. Regardless of the way in which the events played out, he’s still leaning through your window frame and still too fucking close to be considered apprehensive.

At your silence, Rafe clears his throat with a cautious glance. “Can I sit?”

I don’t know, can you? You almost snap childishly, disastrously still wanting to put on the front you had on earlier to attempt to show him your indifference, but it proves unlikely that you’ll have an ounce of that spark you had from before.

Because now you’re just tired. Worn out mentally. Re-hashing the details of your breakup over and over and over in your head to torture yourself. You have little fight left in you, and the mere thought of trying to stay strong only settles more of a kettlebell in your gut.

Wordlessly, you nod.

It’s a bit awkward when he actually realizes you’ve said yes (gestured it, actually), registering that you’ve given him the green light instead of the red that he had been expecting, especially since your venomous words about an hour ago. His limbs are long and lanky, and it takes him a bit of time to actually situate himself next to you and find a position comfortable enough to accommodate his stature. It’s not the most forgiving fire escape, but you’ve gotten used to the harsh ridges and crates that are now a source of comfort.

Rafe notices the unlit joint. “Were you gonna smoke?”

You shrug, because you don’t even know. You brought it out here just to have some sort of outlet in the beginning, but realized it actually might make your spiraling worse, so you left it untouched. Perhaps for later. You didn’t even bring your phone out here.

The stubborn silence coming from you makes him antsy, you can tell. Because there’s one thing that always made him nervous, and that was when you shut down. When you closed yourself off and drifted into the confinements of your mind that aren’t forgiving. When you are silent, because he’s said before that he loves your words, and life without them always hurt no matter what. He dealt with your quiet as best as he could, and for the most part he always handled it well.

Obviously, his method of coddling you back into speaking isn’t going to work now. So instead he sits, picking at his nail beds that confirms he picked up his bad habit again. You almost instinctively reach out to get him to stop, but catch yourself before you can further embarrass yourself.

“You can have it, if you want,” you offer tiredly, voice quieter than you intended.

But despite the volume, his shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice.

“No, I’m…” Rafe clears his throat. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

Then, more silence.

He’s so close yet so far, just barely brushing shoulders and you almost don’t want the connection because it’ll simply remind you of how good it feels to touch him. You don’t want to know it again only to have the rug swept out from beneath you once more. So instead you keep your distance, and don’t lean into him as your heart achingly wants you to do so.

You speak before you make a stupid decision. “How’d you find me?”

In your peripheral, you see Rafe’s head tilt quizzically towards you as if he wasn’t expecting you to speak, to initiate the conversation after the drought. He’s quiet for one, two beats, finally registering that, no, he didn’t imagine it, you asked him a question.

“Wyatt,” he responds simply. His eyes feel like lasers boring into your profile, but you don’t give in, keeping your gaze solely on the city. “Gave me directions.”

You hum. Of course.

“This is nice,” Rafe adds after a few moments. “The place and the…view.”

Again, you hum, ignoring how he’s only looking at you.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask gently.

His brows raise at you bringing out the one million dollar question earlier than you both anticipated, but of course it’s the only one that’s been on your mind for the better part of an hour. He’s here, in the place you initially planned for you two to be in, the place he said he couldn’t follow you to because he didn’t want to bring you down. It feels like one big joke, as if your breakup meant nothing because, despite it all, he’s here.

“Wyatt’s helping me get on my feet,” he answers quietly. “Dad cut me off.”

That piques your curiosity, facing him briefly. “He did? Why?”

Rafe almost looks relieved you’re meeting his gaze. “Backed out of the family business.”

“What?”

He nods. “Put myself in it for a few months and it…” He sucks in a harsh breath. “Fuckin’ blowed. I freaked out, got in a huge fight with him and he just…kicked me out. Cut me off. Told me to go do whatever it is I wanted to do without him.”

Your face must be puzzled as all hell.

He…stepped away from his father’s company? The business he’s been groomed to rule his entire life? Every single major step of Rafe’s life was done to accommodate his eventual take over once his father passes or retires. He majored in business and commercial real estate. He picked up ungodly hours during the holidays or whenever he went home or even logged in from miles and miles away from home to help his dad out with a deal. It’s the only path he’s ever known, only thing he’s ever planned for, only subject he’s been focused on since the responsibility of being a predecessor was high.

And now he’s not doing it anymore?

You want to pry, of course you do, and ask if he’s alright after suddenly dropping the one thing his life seemingly amounted to for the entirety of college. You’ve seen how stressed it made him, how business deals tampered with his mental health and the fear of fucking up weighed on his conscious. More so the fear of disappointing his father.

But Rafe looks content…relaxed, even. It’s as if a massive weight has clobbered to the ground off his shoulders, giving him a newfound lightness to him that you haven’t seen before. Sure, his eyes still brim with a hurt that yours surely reflect, but there’s an easiness to his posture and overall demeanor. It’s almost foreign to see on him.

“And what are you doing now?” You ask incredulously, still wrapping your head around the fact that his life has completely flipped.

Rafe looks down briefly, at the ring you still wear that he gave to you on your birthday one year.

“Working at Wyatt’s dad’s construction site.”

Your brows skyrocket.

He laughs boyishly. “I know. Totally rogue, right?”

Despite it all and despite your aching heart, you manage to laugh with him.

“Rafe Cameron in construction?” You joke. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

He hums low and amused, eyes trained on you. “Me neither. But it’s been good. Steady. Keeping me busy enough so I can save up for school.”

You furrow your brows at him for the umpteenth time. “You’re going back?”

Rafe confirms your suspicions when he nods slowly, earnestly. “Hopefully next fall.”

The words ring through silence for a few moments as you study him, really study his face. It’s soft, still laced with the etches of hurt that isn’t seeming to go away anytime soon, but there’s a firmness to his expression that encapsulates his goals for his future. He looks certain of himself, unsure of himself emotionally, but focused with the way he’s talking about his future.

Because he never really had to deal with that uncertainty. Rafe was always going to move back home after graduation and work with his dad. That was always the plan, nothing more or less to it. He never gave second options a chance and always chased the noble pursuits that would aide him in his future with the company.

But now he’s… free? If that’s the right term for it?

You remember how he used to talk about it sometimes as if it was a prison, as a wheel he’s caught on and never not spinning away from his actual dreams and desires. It was always his path, so Rafe never wanted to think about the possibility of doing something different, because it felt like a lost cause. He’d never be able to leave, so why day dream about doing so? It would only hurt his soul.

Now he’s freed from the burden. And he’s never looked more content.

“That’s…” You try and find the right words. “Good for you.”

You say it as genuinely as you mean it, one hundred percent earnestly. Because he does deserve it, the chance to find himself outside the confinements of what he was bred to be.

But it still doesn’t answer the grand scheme of questions, the big kahuna that’s been plaguing your conscious. Not the question of how he found your room, or your private rooftop, but more so you. Your apartment. Your city. You.

“Why here?” You ask gently. “Out of all the places to start over, you…”

You came to me, you almost say.

But refrain. Because that’s fucking stupid to assume.

It must be a coincidence, no? He has friends here, people to fall back on and places that someone else can introduce him to. He’s not completely alone in his endeavors, like he’s said that Wyatt is helping him get back on his feet. That’s no reason for you to assume that his presence, his uproot, is all because of you. You can’t. Because you’ll spiral more than you already are.

And his answer is worse.

“Because you’re here,” he says simply as if it’s law.

Wh—?

You can barely respond. “Bec—because I’m—?“

Rafe laughs quietly at your befuddlement. “I didn’t know you’d be here literally. Wyatt never told me your name when he told me about the party, only called you Honey. So that was…unintentional.” He hums. “What does Honey mean anyway?”

Your panic spikes. “Uh, nothing. It’s not— There’s no reason to— Semantics.” You’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he’s here for you. “You’re here— You— For me?”

When he nods, it literally sucks the air from your lungs.

“It’s strange,” he says quietly after a moment of relishing in your panicked demeanor. “Seeing you with people who are calling you a different name. Seeing pieces of you around the apartment. I knew as soon as I walked in, it just…fucking killed me.” His fingers twitch in your direction, as if his body is involuntarily drawing himself to touch you. “I didn’t realize it would hurt so fucking bad.”

You can’t help but frown. “You’re the one who did it.”

Rafe squeezes his eyes shut, almost pained. “I know. I know.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know, baby,” he says, the name slipping out like a second nature that stabs your gut. “None of what I'm doing is fair, I- it's selfish. I know that. But I..."

Rafe trails off, scoffing at his own inability to form the words he wishes to speak. You can recognize that, understanding the frustration is not with you but rather the internal turmoil in his own mind. He's constantly fighting with himself, teetering between what feels wrong and what feels right and almost always self destructing in the end.

Words never came easy to him. It's something you learned early on with him, realizing that his actions spoke a lot louder than he ever could. At first, you thought he was odd for shutting down after arguments with his father or after the two of you would disagree on something. But once you saw the laundry neatly folded after one of your classes or the fridge restocked without you asking, you realized that this, the wordless acts, were his versions of mending broken amenities.

You also know that Rafe was probably never taught to properly emote. Orchestrated by the faults of his father.

So you wait patiently. You let him take time to find his words. You allow him to make up for the blunder of his break up.

Playing with the ends of your hoodie (you changed into comfort clothes an hour ago once you promptly decided you will not be returning to the party), you watch as Rafe studies the ring on your finger, brows knit as his eyes narrow in an attempt to ground himself, to focus his thoughts carefully and calculate what he wants to say, how he wants to say it. Trying really, really hard to articulate his bubbling feelings.

"There hasn't been a day that's gone by where I don't think about you," he starts slowly, tone low to articulate his seriousness. "Every fucking day, all I can see is how I hurt you."

The instinct to say something, to say anything, is stronger than you've ever felt. But you hold back, you bite your tongue, instead sucking in a deep breath with the anticipation that whatever he's about to say is going to fucking hurt. Not because you've already been through this before, but because he's probably about to break your heart without even knowing.

He continues. "It wasn't— When you told Wyatt we knew of each other, I... To look at you and pretend you were someone I've never met as if you aren't the only thing keeping my life together at this point.”

Rafe trails off, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily to avoid going on a tangent, to focus on what's important to him in this moment, to not get hung up on semantics from earlier when you were being an asshole.

With another deep breath, he continues.

"I thought I was doing what was right by distancing myself from you, because I knew I'd be suck at home working a job that would've made me miserable, and I..." He sucks in a harsh breath, shaking his head.

But you're yearning for an answer. For anything. "You what?"

Rafe briefly meets your gaze, almost shyly, because you're still here hanging onto every single one of his words. And the look on your face is fucking killing him, because you only look more hurt than before yet prettier than ever.

He swallows harshly. "I know what I'm like. Especially around my old man, and I didn't want to subject you to that."

"Rafe."

It's said as a plea, so earnest and heartbroken that he didn't think you would stand by him, through his wide range of emotions. Because you love him. You know the mental struggle he deals with whenever his father is involved in anything, and you knew that going into your post grad lives. Still, you were going to stick by him, no matter what.

Rafe says your name quietly. "I don't like who I am when I'm around him. I'm mean, and self destructive and...and a total fucking head case."

You whisper his name once more.

But he only shakes his head. "Please, I—I know it sounds stupid, alright? I just didn't want you to see that, to see that part of me. The thought of being long distance with you already fucking killed me, and I didn't need my temper adding onto it."

Rafe's eyes leave yours and settle downwards on the metal crate you're practically both sitting on. His fingers immediately fly to his hand, incessantly picking at his nail beds as a tell that he's on edge, close to panicking. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, but his eyes dart back on forth as he shakes his head, almost to himself, as the gears in his mind turn and turn and turn to desperately search for something more to say.

The act is muscle memory when your hand goes to cover his, stopping his bad habit immediately.

His head whips up to meet your gaze, jolted by the contact he surely was not expecting.

But you hold your own, gazing at him gently to stop the horrific insecurities you know he's spewing to himself in his head. For once, you need him to stop listening to himself and listen to his heart, listen to you, to stop trusting the devil on his shoulder and self sabotage in fear of others doing it first. You'd never. Not with him. He must know that.

"I know you," you say quietly. "And I know you would never hurt me without meaning to."

He winces.

Yet you continue. "I know you push people away before they can do it to you. But you need to understand something, Rafe, that I wasn't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere now. When will you let yourself believe that?"

Rafe frowns impossibly deep, brows furrowing at the notion that you're still here. Despite everything he's done to you, said to you, made you think, you're still here. Wanting him. Caring for him. Being too damn sweet for your own good as you always were. And still are. You're still you, through fragments and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes quite yet, but you're still you. Looking at him like you still love him.

When your hand leaves his to cup his jaw gently, it feels like he can breathe again.

Holy fuck. You've almost forgotten what it's like to touch him. To feel him. To run your fingers along the smoothness of his skin and ground him to a moment so emotional that it nearly sends you flying away. Your palm is practically molded to the sculpture of his bone structure, as if it's been without a puzzle piece for so long, spending so much time incomplete and half of a whole.

Subconsciously, he leans into your touch.

"It feels wrong," he murmurs, eyes boring into yours so deeply that you're getting whiplash. "Having someone care about me like you do. It's not... No one has ever... I don't know how to deal with it."

"By talking," you hum low. "By telling me how you feel. Telling me what you need." Your thumb rubs an absentminded circle over his cheekbone.

He nearly sighs at the sensation. "I don't want to be a burden."

If possible, you frown even more than before. "You're not— Why would you say that? You're not a burden. At all."

Rafe doesn't answer you immediately. His brows pinch at the concept, as if it's foreign, as if what you've said is two plus two is five. His cheek is hot under your palm, hot with nerves and vulnerability that makes him temporarily speechless, and all you do is watch him. You wait for him to come to you. You've said (partially) your piece. His mouth opens and closes once, twice, as if the words are on the tip of his tongue but he refrains last minute, recalibrating his thoughts into something more cohesive.

"My worst fear is disappointing you," he says after a moment of considering your words. "Bringing you down with me. I can't... I won't let that happen."

"You're not," you say almost immediately.

"But I—“

"Do you remember the first week we met?" You blurt out suddenly, rudely interrupting him.

Confusedly, Rafe's head tilts slightly at the anecdote. Nonetheless, he nods slowly, almost egging you to continue.

And you do. "When I cancelled the dinner date at that fancy restaurant you set up? Because I had the flu?"

It was only one of the worst days of your life. Bedridden. Immobile. Practically death without the actual dying part. Too frail to even pick up a water bottle and too stubborn to ask for help. Teetering between being buried under six blankets to cranking the AC on full blast. It was grueling. Debilitating. You missed a plethora of assignments and social gatherings (despite it only being a few days).

He says your name gently. "What's this got to do wit—"

Again, you interrupt him. "You dropped everything, and I mean everything, to take care of me. And then you spent so much time with me that you fucking got sick too," you reminisce, adding a soft chuckle at the end when you think back on the don't be mad text that came from him just days after he was with you.

But he's still not getting it, blinking wordlessly at you in hopes you'll tell him what you mean, why this story has something to do with anything that's going on right now. What he doesn't realize, though, is that it is exactly the kind of thing he sees past. He probably doesn't know how much that meant to you, despite it probably being mindless for him.

How could he even think of himself as a burden? As wasted air? When all he's done is loved you in every way he knows how? How could he even think he's disappointed you when his love has been unlike anything you've ever experienced before? How could he think that low of himself?

"You could never disappoint me," you continue to further add your point. "Never. When all you've done was love me."

“I still do,” he answers almost immediately. “I haven’t stopped.”

You’re moving forward before you both can process it.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, your body is instantly taut to his, chest to chest and cheek to cheek as you find your mold against his body. It’s familiar yet agonizing, almost mind blowing that you’ve gone so long without him, without his touch, without his embrace that you quickly grew to love the first time he held you. You feel like you can finally breathe, finally remember the beautiful feeling after losing it.

Rafe’s nearly — if not more — relieved than you are, wrapping his arms around you immediately with one hand butterfly splaying on your back and the other on the back of your head, keeping you close. The deep exhale that emits from his mouth tickles your ear, and you let yourself close your eyes at the warmth of him, of how he smells the same.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

Tears brim your waterline. You’ve been without him for so long, loving a shadow of a man without ever seeing or hearing from him. You wanted to be angry, to hate him, to say fuck it and move on with your life. But you couldn’t. Not when he’s the only one who has ever made you feel alive. Not when he’s been hurting in his own quiet way and self sabotaging at the fear of hurting you.

Rafe sucks in a large breath and, with that, his chest bumps impossibly taut to yours. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Don’t leave,” you plead, your voice ghosting the shell of his ear that makes the hair on his arm stand up. “Please. Not again.”

“I won’t,” he answers immediately, sounding absolutely wrecked. “I won’t, baby. I promise. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, readjusting your grip around him to pull tighter — if possible — and practically seating yourself in his lap. It’s not comfortable at all, and you can’t imagine it’s comfortable for him against the grate-like fire escape. But it’s when you need, it’s what he needs, and neither of you can fathom how long you spent away from each other, almost like a sick joke.

And you just stay like this for a bit, holding onto each other as if you’re gripping onto a balloon threatening to float away. Despite his shorter, new hair, his cologne is the same as you first met him. The ring adorning his finger, the family ring, is missing from his hand, instead replaced with a similar looking one. The shirt is sleek and thin and you can feel the ridges and hills of his muscles underneath it. He may look a little different, more mature and in different clothes, but he feels the same as he’s always been, he’s still the person you know through and through.

“Inside,” you say after a while. “Please?”

“Yes,” he whispers immediately, certain. “No need to beg, baby. I’ll do whatever you want.”

When you untangle limbs, it’s slow, calculated, appreciative. His hands linger on your body longer than they should, mapping regions he hasn’t touched in months, re-familiarizing himself with the dips and crevices of your body. You do the same, pressing the pads of your fingertips along his shoulder blades and on the columns of his neck, skimming gently over the single earring adorning his left ear that definitely wasn’t there before. His skin is hot, almost burning for you, yet inviting in a way that makes you never want to let go.

It takes a little while to mobilize. You’re so caught up in feeling each other that you don’t realize how much time has passed. Not that it matters anyway. Because all you can focus on is the man in front of you, putting his heart on a silver platter and serving it to you hot. It’s all limbs and incoordination when climbing back through your window, soft laughter echoing off the alley walls and reverberating into your bedroom. His hands attempt to help you, drifting down to your waist as you climb through and you assume it’s a gesture just for him to cop a feel. But you don’t mind. You’ve missed it. You never want his hands away from you again.

When you change into pajamas and you slither into bed, your eyes brazenly watch him. The way he peels his t-shirt off his body, or unbuckles his pants to leave him solely in his boxers, in his preferred sleep wear. Yet he does it because he knows you: he knows you don’t like “outside clothes” in your sheets, wordlessly respecting your wishes without even being told so.

Rafe climbs under the sheets like he owns it, and you’ve already designated that side of the bed to him long ago, so seeing him here doesn’t feel so foreign. It’s muscle memory when his hand seeks refuge on your waist, shamelessly settling under your sleep shirt to let the pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh to almost stake a claim, but also to tether himself.

Your hand, on instinct, ghosts the skin of his chest, palm skimming over his heart. Despite not pressing fully, you can practically feel how fast it’s beating, how hard it’s thrumming against his ribcage. Though his content expression is a contrary to the feeling, looking more relaxed than ever.

The sensation makes your lips twitch. “Your heart is racing.” You let your palm press gently onto the rhythm.

His smile is impossibly bright.

“Remember when I kissed you for the first time?”

“I remember you being so nervous that you missed.”

“Alright.” Rafe laughs. “Not what I was referring to, but I guess.”

It’s devastatingly refreshing to see his smile, almost forgetting how pretty he looks like this: happy, unguarded, mind quiet of its vulnerabilities and allowing him to enjoy the moment, to slow down and indulge in the simplicities yet complexities of love.

“Then what?” You hum teasingly, his blue eyes piercing despite the dim lighting. “If not that?”

The laughter dies down. His gaze softens. His thumb traces shapes on your skin.

“Thought my heart was gonna burst out of my fuckin’ chest,” he murmurs casually as if that doesn’t make yours skip a beat, even more so when his hand comes up to caress your face, thumb skimming over your bottom lip. “Every single time.”

“You should probably see a cardiologist.”

“Don’t need a diagnosis, baby. ‘S just you.”

You try not to smile. You really try. But it’s really fucking difficult when he looks so pretty, staring at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself and holding you here in place so firmly yet gently at the same time that you couldn’t move if you tried. And he knows it. He knows you’re trying not to give into his charm, the same charm that you’ve been falling for for as long as you’ve known him.

“And now?” You dare, pressing your hand into his beating heart. “How’s it feel?”

“Like it’s gonna burst outta my chest,” he says before kissing you.

Instantly, you’re arching into his body, palms pressed firmly on his chest as a feeble attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that this is happening and, no, you’re not dreaming. Rafe’s here, in your bed, kissing you like his life depends on it (and it probably does). Your brows pinch even though he can’t see your face, furrowed in focus to narrow in on the passion.

Rafe makes a noise. A sigh? You think. Regardless, you reciprocate and deepen the kiss by slightly parting your lips, allowing him the access he’s been craving. And he takes advantage in less than a second, a large hand splayed on the column of your neck to keep you here against him, feeling the way your jaw slightly opens to accommodate him.

“I love you,” he praises between breaths as if it’ll kill him if he doesn’t. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You say it back. He says it again. You tennis-match the phrase over and over and over until the phonetics are burned into your tongues. He murmurs it against your skin against your lips, you beck, your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. You whisper it into the air as if it’s prayer, an incantation that, strung together, produces a spell unlike any other.

And he’s hypnotized. It isn’t until you finish twice on his tongue that he’s even thinking about himself, and it’s only when you, in a daze, paw at his chest as ask for him, for all of him. He nearly double takes, caught up in the moment of simply pleasuring you, and if you hadn’t stopped him, if you hadn’t asked so sweetly, he would’ve went down on you ‘til sunrise.

The whole ordeal is slow. Unhurried. Deep and sensual that rattles your bones to shake. When he slips inside, it’s fucking euphoric, with an overwhelming sense of longing, nostalgia that causes a pleasure tear to slip from your eye, a tear that falls without you knowing. Not until he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, anyway.

You’re sure you’re a babbling mess, spewing out incoherent sentences and mumbles of an I love you that probably don’t make sense. But he hears you all the same, going as far as repeating the phrase over and over against your skin like a mantra, telling you how nice you feel, that you’re made for him, how beautiful you are despite probably looking like a hot mess.

When all is said and done, Rafe is right there to tend to your needs. He’s kissing your stomach as he cleans the mess from your inner thighs. His thumb is smoothing over the hickies he peppered over multiple regions of your body, praising how beautiful you look, how good you were for him. He patiently waits for you to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed before he’s welcoming you back with open arms, and you’re not hesitating to fall into them. His embrace is warm and familiar, and you find it easy to breathe, to feel like you can relax. Rafe must feel the same, because his breathing is deeper, more evened out. Calmer and more sure of himself. Content.

“Stay the night,” you plea gently as you’re halfway to falling asleep.

You know it’s pathetic to ask, that he probably was going to anyway. But there’s that small sliver of doubt, the tiny voice in the back of your brain that’s haunted from the first time he left, driven to separation by his insecurities. You say it to be sure he knows, that he could stay for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t mind.

“I’m not leaving,” Rafe reassures against your hairline. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

And you fall asleep like that: entangled limbs and sharing the same pillow despite a whole arm’s length of space. Your even breaths are what lure him to sleep, waiting for the crazy thumping of his heartbeat to die down before you can wake up to it. He relishes in the sensation of your breathing, how your chest rises and falls against his, and how you practically nuzzle into his embrace that confirms that you missed him just as much as he missed you.

Rafe pulls you a fraction tighter, refusing to let you go again. It’s a wordless promise that he’s going to try to be better for you, to stop listening to the vulgarities of his mind and listen to his heart. He’s going to allow himself to be loved by you and he’s going to let himself believe he deserves it.

Because if you say it? It’s as good as law.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes hope this request is what you envisioned???? hope you enjoyed!!

[prythianpages]

Tonight, the Light of Love is in Your Eyes

Azriel x Rhysand's Sister (reader) | You find yourself in the middle of a political affair, where you seek refuge in a dance with Azriel. And in the spur of the moment, Azriel tells you he loves you for the first time.

warnings: secret love, implied smut (brief mention), you and az being impulsive and risking it all

word count: 1,900

a/n: I used the dialogue of this scene from The Witcher as a prompt for this fic.

“Hybern is still close to Spring. Though they’ve lost the war, it seems their alliance still stands. Bradwell has shown interest in her, it’d be best if she takes his favor tonight. Or even Tamlin’s, they are closer in age.”

Your gaze is fixed forward, but your mind drifts, creeping into the quiet mental conversation between your father and brother. They speak of you, as if your own desires are inconsequential, and it stings more than you let show.

“Why should she? When the High Lord of Autumn, who fought alongside our armies, has six sons and one on the way…”

Breathe in, breathe out. You force the command on yourself, struggling to maintain the composure you’ve perfected over years of courtly life. The mask you wear feels more fragile tonight, your heart threatening to crack the facade. 

You allow your eyes to wander and regret it when you meet the gaze of Bradwell–the eldest son of Spring. He is watching you, green eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness, his smirk oozing arrogance. As if you’re a prize to be won–a prize already won. The sight of it turns your stomach. 

It’s instinctual almost–the way your eyes gravitate toward Azriel as they always do at the slightest discomfort. He’s been your anchor, your safety blanket for years. He stands just a few steps below you, tall and stoic. 

His hands are clenched into fists, shadows weaving and writhing along his limbs in a frenzy, whispering secrets to him that you ache to hear. His head is turned toward Bradwell and there’s no doubt his gaze is hardened into an icy composure when the eldest of Spring suddenly peels his gaze off of you.  

As you pull your gaze away from the Night Court’s Spymaster, you catch your mother’s eye. She sits beside your father on a much simpler throne. She sends you a sympathetic smile and you cast your gaze down, mask faltering as a blush creeps up your neck.

By the Cauldron, how you wish you could be anywhere but here. You’d much rather be alongside Cassian and Mor, who are most likely indulging in the fine wine and cheeses. The only redeeming part of these insufferable court parties.

“Is it not best to keep our most at-risk enemies close? Spring–”

Your body tenses, each muscle coiling as you listen to the words between your brother and father, their minds still unaware of your presence within them. It’s laughable, almost. Rhysand taught you well. You were a later bloomer when it came to the manifestation of your powers but the daemati power runs strong in you. 

Movement catches your eye. It’s Bradwell. He begins to make his way toward you, one hand already reaching for the sage-green handkerchief embroidered with a golden beast. A token you know he plans to offer. The sight of it makes something in you snap. You can’t take it anymore.

You whip your head around, your heart pounding, and your gaze finds Azriel once more—the only one you want. The only one you’ve ever wanted.

“Azriel, will you dance with me?”

The words escape your lips before you even realize you’ve said them. There’s a brief moment where the world seems to still as Azriel turns to meet your gaze. His eyes widen slightly, shadows pausing briefly in midair–the only sign of emotion he shows. 

But you feel a flutter in your chest.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s danced with you. The two of you have danced plenty of times before. However, it’d be the first time you’d give him your first dance. A notion that seems silly but held to a high esteem in the Court of Nightmares.

You feel your father’s and Rhysand’s gaze also on you–the latter’s eyes narrowing at you. He’s already sensed the lingering presence you left in his mind, and you can feel his talons scratching at the edges of your mental walls. But you hold steady, just as he taught you and push him away.

Azriel keeps his eyes on you yet his shadows peer over his shoulders, the dark tendrils darting back and forth between your brother and father. Cautious and a bit defensive.

It’s your mother who breaks the silence. She had kept her gaze on the dance floor in front of her, that same knowing smile playing on her lips. “It is impolite to keep a lady waiting.”

Azriel nods his head. “Of course.”

He shifts forward–one foot resting on the first step while the other remains on the ground floor. He extends his scarred hand to you, his shadows barely able to contain their excitement, betraying the cool mask he dons.

You smile—truly smile—as you place your hand in his, and together, you walk toward the dance floor. Your heart swells with defiance as you purposefully avert your eyes when passing Bradwell, chin held high. Rhysand’s mental claws scratch harder, desperate to break through your defenses. You continue to shut him out, strengthening the walls of your mind. 

The Cauldron simmers in your favor. As you reach the dance floor, the music shifts to a slower, more romantic melody. Azriel’s hand wraps around yours, his fingers enclosing around your palm while his other hand rests gently at the small of your back. The tension in your body melts under his touch and you find yourself leaning in closer to him, your body always yearning to be with his.

Shadows slither softly around you, hiding within the seams of your black dress like a protective shield. Azriel’s eyebrows furrow and you recognize the brief distant look in his eyes. “Rhys is not happy,” he murmurs. “Your first dance was supposed to be with the eldest son of Spring.”

His jaw clenches and you see the way his shadows curl tighter around him as if to suffocate the jealousy he dares not voice.

“Let him sulk. I get to decide who to dance with, who to be with.”

Azriel was the master of composure. He’s always calm, steady, controlled. But tonight, something in his gaze feels different. There’s something vulnerable there, something pained. He looks away for a moment, as if trying to keep his emotions from manifesting further. 

“I can’t offer you what he can..."

His hand twitches in yours, like he’s about to pull away, but you hold him tighter. “Good,” you respond without hesitation. “I don’t want anything that arrogant ass has to offer.”

Azriel’s eyes snap back to yours, searching, conflicted. He hesitates, as if still grappling with the part of himself that believes he doesn’t deserve this. That you deserve more, much better than him. Someone who can give you the world, not someone who only knows to live in the shadows.

You intertwine your fingers with his, lips curling into a small grin. “Your ass is the only one I want,” you add, your power reaching out to him and gently slipping past his defenses to show him the marvelous view you had of his backside earlier.

And as your thoughts drift to the last night you shared together, where you got to see all of him, Azriel lets out an exhale, his lips mirroring the upwards curl to yours. Taking advantage of the grip you have on his mind, you show him more memories from that night. The way his scarred hands had caressed every inch of your body, his lips following the path his hands made…

 “I can’t give you much,” Azriel’s voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed with yours, lips hovering right over your own.  “But I can give you everything I have.”

You smiled softly at him, your fingers brushing the side of his face, tracing every line and contour of the male who held your heart. So beautiful, so perfect. 

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you replied and then closed the small gap between you to kiss him.

The pained look in his hazel eyes melts into something warmer, something sweeter, as he takes in the memories of that night through your eyes. He had never doubted your love, but the weight of his own insecurities—his belief that he was beneath you—constantly gnawed at him.

Every time he touched you in secret, every night you spent hidden away together, he feared that someday you might wake up and realize he wasn’t enough.

But here, dancing with you, the way your eyes held him, he felt that overwhelming doubt ease. To see and feel the depth of your sincerity, as if your very soul called out to his…

“I love you.”

Your heart stilled at the words, your step faltering. In a smooth maneuver, Azriel spins you around, catching you effortlessly before you could stumble. His hands steady you as you face him once more.

 “That’s the first time you’ve said that,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, though you know Azriel’s shadows are already ensuring no one else can hear your words.

“It can’t be,” Azriel murmurs in disbelief, brows furrowing slightly. 

“You used to think it,” you quietly admit, your gaze dropping for a moment before returning to his. It wasn’t that you had ever meant to pry, but when it was just the two of you, his mind was often at ease, unguarded. Sometimes, his thoughts would be too loud for you to ignore. “But tonight, you finally said it.”

The shadows hidden within the lacey seams of your dress stir and you watch as one of the shadows lingering over Azriel’s shoulders slithers up and curls around his ear. His grip on you tightens and your ears perk up. 

The song is coming to an end and though couples continue to dance and whirl around you, your nose picks up on an approaching scent. Fresh wildflowers and oak—rich and lovely, exuding the essence of Spring. Yet it fills you with dread. You don’t want this moment to end. You’re tired of pretending, of living this life of secrecy.

“Azriel,” you say, one hand reaching out toward his face to turn his attention back to you. A bold move but tonight, you’re ready to be even bolder. “Kiss me.”

His shadows stir, swirling anxiously around him, their whispers warning that too many eyes are upon you both. You can feel his hesitation, the unspoken question in his gaze as he searches your face.

“In front of everyone,” you confirm. Show them I’m yours, you speak into his mind, and only yours.

Azriel pauses, his chest tightening at the implication of your words. He can feel Rhysand’s presence–furious and demanding– trying to slip into his mind. No doubt trying to steer him away from this impulsive display and away from you. 

He feels the weight of the room pressing down on him—the sons of Spring and Autumn watching his every breath.

But all of that falls away when he meets your eyes again. 

There is only you in this moment.

The one who had always been able to see through his walls, the one who made him feel like the most precious thing in the room, the only one he cared about.

“Kiss me,” you whisper again.

And Azriel is not going to let you ask a third time.

Not when the light of love is shining so brightly in your eyes. His hand covers yours on his cheek, and then, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that silences the room.

Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

a/n: It's been awhile since I wrote for Az. Miss this shadow daddy lol. Part 2 is already up 🫶🏽 you can find it here.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry

[asterlust]

The World You Never Knew

When Gojo is sent to a small region to dispose of a powerful curse, only to learn it’s already been dealt with, he finds something far more interesting.Or, rather, someone.

Yandere!Gojo x reader

Tags: Rape/Non-con, violence, yandere/obsessive/possessive behavior, threats of blackmail, smut, P in V, v fingering, rough (more on Ao3)

Word count: 12.1K

an: A present to Poly @/Envy-of-the-apple. Absolutely stunning individual, that one, HIGHLY recommend his work. Pls go tell him that you love his porn and jerked off to it 12 times in his anons.

This is a repost from my other blog, as this one will be dedicated to dark content. Sorry, and thanks for bearing with me <3

“Ughhhhh.”

“Gojo Satoru! This is–”

“Yeah, yeah,” a lazy hand waved through the air, irritated, like swatting away an annoying fly. “I got it. Go to this town, deal with the spirit. Is that it? Really? I mean, do you have to send me specifically? Seems underneath me.”

“It’s a Grade 1. Ieiri doesn’t fight, Nanami is busy on another mission, and the Kyoto branch is busy training new sorcerers. You’re the only person left.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“This is not a request! It’s an order, Satoru.”

A deep, heavy, long-suffering sigh escaped the owner of the Six Eyes, who finally kicked his feet off the office desk and rocked his chair back into its proper upright position. “Fine,” he ground out, slapping his knees as he stood up. “I’ll go. Where is this place again?”

Yaga’s cheek twitched. “Kami-shima.”

Gojo nodded, half-paying attention as he dug around his ear with his pinky. “‘Kay.”

“Thank yo–”

Before the teacher could finish his statement, the door to his office slammed shut, prompting him to drop heavily into his seat with a groan. 

He rubbed at his forehead, defeated and drained after dealing with the heir of the Six Eyes. “That child…”

All he could do was pity any village inhabitants that might cross paths with Gojo Satoru.

«___° ° °___»

“Left!”

On cue, you ducked right, dodging a nasty swipe aimed straight for your head. A moment later, a second arm lashed out, and you somersaulted to entirely avoid the series of limbs racing towards you. Dirt clung to your back as you rolled onto your feet, your arm working to wrap the heavy chains of your tsuri-dōrō around your wrist and palm.

The demon screeched and spun to face you, enraged by your swift escape. Its arms flailed, sickly green and bronze appendages that wriggled and writhed, squirming like worms on a wet stone – six on the left, nine on the right.

You and Mirio had been running circles around it for the better part of fifteen minutes, wearing down its stamina chip by chip. You had already lopped off two of its arms and a leg, scorch marks decorating its infected, necrotic flesh, but it had yet to slow down.

“Back, right, down!”

You raised your right leg, and slammed it down the moment a wobbling, flailing limb appeared beneath you. Your lantern dropped on top of it behind your calf, and you channeled your mahou into it. Its blue flame flared, blazing up the length of the monster’s arm on command, eating away at its thin tissue. The inhuman sound that escaped its gaping maw grated on your ears, but you only increased the power behind the fire, pushing until the arm burned through and fell off.

As the demon stumbled away, howling at the top of its lungs, its disembodied arm continued to twitch and thrash, like salt thrown onto frog legs. Your nose wrinkled, and you kicked it away, turning around to continue fighting, chain winding once more in preparation to be thrown.

But, to your luck, a long spear was already stuck through the beast’s center, spikes protruding like the rays of the sun to keep it lodged in place, poison dripping off the polished wood. A paralytic, specially designed to affect only demons. The stronger the demon, the more the paralytic affected them.

Your name was shouted. “Now!” 

Wasting no time, you swung your tsuri-dōrō over your head twice, and launched it at the demon. The dark metal legs caught onto a flap of loose flesh and punctured into the muscle beneath, providing the perfect hold needed to maintain steady, undisturbed contact.

It screamed, but it was too late.

“Burn!” You shouted, weaving twin flames chasing one another down the black chain until they reached the center of the lantern. In an instant, the entire monster was engulfed in a blistering, cyan inferno. It wailed as its body began to flake and fall away, washi lit with a candle and released to float to the heavens. Rapidly, your target decayed, crusting and disintegrating until all that was left was a pile of ash that, too, was fading.

Before it wholly disappeared, Mirio jogged over, her hands clasped; pinkies and ring fingers intertwined, index and middle fingers set flush to one another and pointing upwards.

“Be released,” she urged. With a damp poof, the ash popped, fizzled, and was gone.

You sighed in relief, allowing your tsuri-dōrō to settle on the soil. Bent over, you propped your hands up on your knees, gulping down gallons of air to catch your breath. You’d been napping soundly under the warm sun until Mirio had shown up, panicked as she shook you awake and informed you that a demon was encroaching on the village. Given no time to stretch and yawn and prepare, you’d hopped up and ran straight into battle.

You didn’t regret it, no, of course not. But, man, you were going to be sore in the evening. You could already feel the acid leaching from your thighs, causing your muscles to twitch like soapy bubbles popping.

“Sure you’re not too old for this, ma’am?” A tease, given to you from your very own apprentice, one darling Akinori.

They were a spritely, young kid, far too eager for the fate awaiting them, the obligation they accepted when they became – pleaded to be – your apprentice. They aspired to be like you, like the rest of the Exorcists that wandered the island, and while you weren’t entirely comfortable with the pedestal they put you on (unintentionally, you knew. They were a good kid and meant well), you remembered what it was like when you were their age.

Starry-eyed, excited to play your part in protecting your home, your people, defending them from the monsters under the bed that used to scare you.

Now, all you wanted was a nap. A strong drink, too.

“Nori,” you panted out, and stood straight once more. “Shove it up your ass.”

They pouted. “Is that any way to speak to your apprentice?”

You used your index finger to flick at their forehead. “I warned you, you knew what you were getting into. No complaining, now.”

Nori snorted and rolled their eyes, but obeyed, skipping up to your side. Their stripped, paperless parasol was folded, and with a flick of their wrist, the weapon disappeared. Following suit, you let your chain fall to the ground, and both it and your tsuri-dōrō vanished in a bundle of sparkles.

Beside you, Mirio was writing on a strip of paper, a block of wood held underneath it for support. “Time of exorcism: 14:23. Well done, that was quick. It only took seventeen minutes.”

You groaned as you arched your back, hands on your lumbar to aid in cracking the vertebrae there. “Not bad. You’ve gotten better at callouts. How’s your vision?”

At the mention, your fellow Exorcist rubbed her eye, grunting. “Not awful. Aches a little, but I think it’ll go away in a few minutes.”

Nodding, you clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy.”

She nodded back. “‘Course. Do you want to go report to the Elder about the demon?”

Cocking your head side to side, wincing at the clicks in your neck, you hummed in consideration. “Yeah, sure. Let’s get it out of the way now.”

With Nori tucked against your side, the kid rambling (again) about how cool your strength was (again) and fluffing up your ego (appreciated), your little trio made their way towards the Elder’s home, ready to turn in the report. Ideally, you’d get it over quick, and be freed to continue that late afternoon nap of yours.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have other plans.

Stopping in your tracks, you locked onto a figure approaching from the distance, dressed nearly from head-to-toe in black, save for the shock of white hair decorated atop their head. They walked hunched over, hands tucked away in their pockets, clearly detesting whatever had brought them to this hamlet.

Noticing that you’d fallen behind, Akinori and Mirio called out to you simultaneously.

You waved them off pacifyingly. “Go ahead without me, I'll deal with this.”

“You sure, auntie?” Nori asked, peering skeptically at the incomer.

You crinkled your nose at the bridge. “Don’t call me that, you’ll make me feel old.”

“Would you prefer ‘mom’?”

You began reaching to tug off a shoe. “You–!”

Mirio grasped Nori’s arm and began tugging them away, waving at you from over her shoulder. “See you at the Elder’s house, auntie! Be careful!”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest petulantly as you watched your juniors disappear across the bridge in a fit of giggles, Nori’s laughter carried on the soft, ocean breeze to you, and you eventually sighed as you dismissed your irritation. “Damn children,” you mumbled, returning your attention to the stranger, who was now only a few meters away.

Closer, now, you could see it was a man – a boy, really. You had at least a decade on him, maybe that and a half. His cheeks were still round with youth, scrawny despite his unruly height. Wide shoulders, yes, but arms and legs like twigs. Lanky, damn near sickly with just how pale the exposed skin of his face was.

Even so, you could recognize the presence of mahou no matter where you were, and his was particularly strong. White hair, too. Strange, you thought. Albinism? Something else? It was certainly a unique look, if nothing else. You’d ask about it later, if you found the chance.

“Welcome to Kami-shima,” you told him once he was in reach, arms lowering to rest at your sides. “What brings you here?”

He stopped in front of you, head raising to show that he was wearing round shades, the lenses pitch black. Hell, you weren’t sure he could see through them at all to begin with, but he made it here and hadn’t tripped yet, so maybe it was simply an illusion that made them look darker than they were.

He was silent for a drawn out moment, then responded, a plucked brow raising. “Who are you?”

“Manners,” you chided, then gave your name. “I’m a local Exorcist.”

He quipped sarcastically, “Exorcist? What, like, you scare away ghosts? Puh, you know those aren’t real, right?”

Good heavens, who raised this boy? Even your grandpa, notorious hardass that he was, was never this condescending. 

“No,” you enunciated slowly. “I exorcise demons. You’re lucky, we just got rid of one shortly before you arrived.”

He frowned, and a look of deep consideration crossed over the parts of his expression you could see. It made him look like he was pouting, like thinking was a task he wasn’t ever keen to do. Pretty easy to clock him as a spoiled, rich kid. This had to be a punishment for him of some kind.

You met him less than thirty seconds again, and you could already see why it would be.

He huffed, the noise one of disbelief. “Wait, the cursed spirit? You got rid of it? That thing was a Grade 1, how could you exorcise it?”

“The hell does ‘Grade 1’ mean?” You mumbled, and shook your head. “Nevermind. I was able to exorcise it because I’m the most experienced Exorcist in this part of Kami-shima.”

“But, you’re so…weak.”

Your brow twitched and you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. “Someone needs to discipline you,” you insisted. “Come on, I’ll take you to the Elder.”

In truth, while you did intend to show him your way of life, since he clearly had no clue how any of this worked, there was something about him that unsettled you. Greatly. Part of the reason you wanted to hurry and meet up with the senior was so that you weren’t alone with the newcomer anymore. 

He was a jerk, sure, but that’s not what (wholly) bothered you.

No, it was the way you could feel him staring into you, through you.

You couldn’t see his eyes, but it was easy to sense the sheer power behind his gaze, the way he seemed to look down at you as if you were an insect. Maybe, that was his Strength, those eyes of his. Gods, what an unsettling thought, for someone’s power to lie within their eyes alone. All he would need was a glance. A peek, and cities would be razed.

His Weakness would be blindness, were someone to somehow reach his face and claw out those orbs, but you had a feeling that nobody would ever get the chance.

As much as you hated when people wore sunglasses, since it made them look exceptionally suspicious, you were, inexplicably, grateful that his were planted solidly on the bridge of his nose, blocking his hues from your sight. Whatever it was about them, the irritating tickle in the back of your mind told you that you didn’t want to ever peer into them personally.

Without waiting to see if he was following you, you started walking towards the village, and a few, delayed seconds later, you heard him jog to keep up. 

“What’s your name, kid?” You queried.

He clicked his tongue. “Gojo Satoru,” he replied, like you were supposed to drop onto your knees and stick your head in the ground, performing dogeza for having not realized his identity sooner.

Instead, you blinked at him from the corner of your eye, and kept striding forward.

“Alright, Gojo. Nice to meet you,” you hummed. “Were you drawn to Kami-shima because of the demon?”

Gojo cocked his head to the side, further and further until his jaw popped. “Yep. Got sent to this…place on a mission.”

You let out a ‘huh’ sound. “Mission? Oh, so you’re part of another sect of Exorcists? Are you from the mainland?”

He shrugged idly. “Nah, I’m a sorcerer.”

“Sorcerer? What a weird name.”

“You people are the ones with the weird names. Demons, Exorcists, what’s up with that?”

You raised a hand on instinct to smack the back of his head, only to be stopped completely by the sensation of…air?

Staggering to a stop, you flexed your hand, sensing the strong resistance pushing back into your palm. It wasn’t like you had been frozen into place, your hand hitting a brick wall; you could still feel the energy flowing in and around it, the twitching of your muscles that indicated you remained in control of them. You were moving, just incredibly slowly, enough so that by the time you breached through this invisible barrier, you’d likely be bones rotting and returning to the earth.

Withdrawing, you brought your hand to your chest, rubbing your thumb into the center of it to swipe off the excess mahou the ability left on you. “What in the world? Is– is that your Strength?” You were so certain his eyes were his Strength, were you wrong?”

A grin split across Gojo’s lips, tugging at the corners until it pushed his cheeks upwards. “Infinity. It’s the inherited Technique of the Gojo clan. Neat, right?”

“Technique?” You repeated. “How does it work?”

“Anything that comes into contact with Infinity is slowed down infinitesimally until it almost ceases entirely.”

How fascinating, you thought. How terrifying. The power to divide a number upon itself forever and never reach zero, to apply that to himself, to others.

Just what was his Strength?

Deciding to let the Elder figure it out for you, you crossed the bridge with Gojo in tow, offering hellos to the familiar faces you passed by, who stared unabashedly at the outsider. The aforementioned outsider himself didn’t appear to mind the attention in the slightest. If anything, he relished it, waving and grinning at the older women, cooing at the young children hiding behind their mother’s legs.

Your people weren’t unkind to newcomers. Given how small the island was, the low population, visitors weren’t common. You had nothing to offer tourists; attractions, interesting structures, none of those existed. All you had were beautiful landscapes, a tepid oceanfront, local specialties, and warm hospitality.

For most, that was more than enough. Those that came knew what to expect, and didn’t make a fuss.

You believed Gojo wouldn’t behave that way, and your neighbors seemed to think the same.

The call of a youngling made you turn, watching as an adolescent boy ran up to you, arms outstretched. You knelt down, allowing him to crash into you, the force causing you to puff out an ‘oof’.

“Miss Exorcist, Miss Exorcist,” he practically bounced on his toes. “Is the demon gone?”

Patting his back twice, you hummed in assent. “All gone. We took care of it, don’t you worry.”

“What did it look like?”

You mulled over his question, deciding how to tastefully leave out the grosser details a kid his age didn’t need to know. “It was tall, with a big mouth and so many arms, I lost count,” you embellished, not mentioning the stench of rot and decay that stuck to it like a miasma, nor the way the detached arms wriggled like abandoned lizard tails.

He hooned, brown irises glittering with fascination. “So cool! Was it strong?”

“Super strong.”

“But, you’re stronger, right? That’s why you won!”

Enjoying his chiming laughter, you leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “That’s right. I’m way stronger. No big, scary monster is gonna get you, not under my watch.”

He giggled. “Can I be like you one day? See and fight the monsters, too?”

You hummed in contemplation. Not many were born with the ability to see the demons, let alone take them down. “Even if you never get to see them, it’s never a bad idea to get stronger. Gotta protect that little sister of yours if I can’t be there.”

He nodded firmly, deadly serious. “I’ll keep her safe. I want you to be proud of me.”

“I already am,” you ruffled his hair, his dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Now, go, find your mom. I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

“She’ll make me do chores…”

“Then, you better hurry back before she gets mad and gives you more work, hm?”

He gasped, suddenly aware of the consequences of avoiding chores. He wormed his way out of your hold and scurried off, thanking you on his way.

As you stood back up, Gojo appeared at your side out of nowhere, nearly scaring you out of your damn skin.

He paid your spook no mind, his attention focused on where the kid had vanished down the tight alleyways. “They know?”

“Huh?”

“They know about curses? That you’re a sorcerer? The people of this island?”

You blinked. “They know about demons, and that I’m an Exorcist, of course, they do. Why wouldn’t they?”

“They’re not supposed to,” he claimed, brows knitting. “We’re meant to protect humanity, so they can live in ignorant bliss.”

Your lips tugged downwards in displeasure. “That’s too dangerous,” you explained. “If they didn’t know, they’d have no way to protect themselves if one of our Exorcists isn’t around. How are people supposed to survive in this world if they aren’t aware of the threats that exist in it?”

He didn’t reply to that, lost for an answer. “How do they know, if they can’t see curses?”

From the back pocket of your pants, you pulled out a wooden token – an omamori. “From the shrine,” you informed him. “Grants protection, and kinda works like a siren. If a demon is close by, the omamori creates a thin barrier around the owner that can deflect most demonic attacks. Gives them enough time to get back to safety and warn the Elder.”

“Who is the Elder? You keep mentioning him.”

Giving him a wan smile, you pushed open the door of a nearby home, jolting your head towards it. 

“You’re about to meet her.”

True to your word, as you stepped inside, you found the Elder sitting in her armchair, nursing a steaming cup of tea as Nori and Mirio rambled about the defeated demon.

“–And, then, she threw her tsuri-dōrō on it, and it went fwum! Totally badass!”

Mirio smacked the back of Nori’s head. “Language!”

“Wha– but it’s true!”

The Elder laughed, her crackling voice soothing the bickering pair. “It’s alright, little Mirio. They’re still young, let them be excited,” she said, placing her cup on the side table next to her chair. “Besides, we have guests.”

Both of the younger two in the room whipped their heads around to take in your and Gojo’s presence.

“Hey,” you greeted. “Miss me?”

Nori hopped up to their feet from the floor and pointed at Gojo, completely disregarding you. “That’s him! That’s the stranger!”

This time, it was you that whacked them on their shoulder. “Manners! It’s rude to point and yell.”

They pouted. “Sorry, auntie. But, that’s him, right?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sighed. “Yes. This is–”

“Six Eyes.”

All present froze to look at the Elder, who gazed at the white-haired man with wonder and awe.

Gojo scoffed. “Finally, someone recognizes me.”

She shook her head. “Not you, boy. Your Strength. You wield the Six Eyes, do you not?”

You watched his jaw muscles feather, but the pride of someone being aware of his power overwhelmed any sort of irritation her dismissal incited. “I do. What of them?”

So, it was his eyes, after all. You were right.

“That’s powerful magic there, boy,” she warned. “Too powerful, in the wrong hands.”

He rolled his eyes (well, his head – those sunglasses were in the way, and he was notably very aware of them) and sucked his teeth. “It’s fine, I’m the strongest. Best hands, right here.”

“Elder,” Mirio tugged at the woman’s sleeve. “What are the Six Eyes?”

She took the girl’s hand into her own pair, palms worn soft with age. “They’re like your eyes, but much more powerful, my dear. Capable of seeing everything.”

“Everything?”

She confirmed, “Everything. Light, mahou, your heart. Nothing can hide from those eyes.”

Mirio placed a hand over her chest, evidently covering her heart, protecting it from Gojo’s intrusive gaze, were he to try and see it for himself.

It explained the glasses, at least. Likely to dampen the effect of his Strength. You imagined that having them bared was unpleasant, if the Elder’s words were true. Mirio suffered from potent headaches if she channeled her Strength for too long. Was Gojo’s Strength permanently activated?

“That’s not all to you, is it, child?”

Gojo grumbled something about not being a child, so you stepped in.

“He claims to have something called ‘Infinity’. In short, I can’t touch him,” you told her. “Elder Aisha, is it possible for someone to have multiple Strengths?”

Aisha considered it, resting her chin between her index and thumb. “It is, though it is more rare in today’s age. With less demons, there’s less need for an Exorcist to possess multiple Strengths. Your ancestor had two.”

“My ancestor?”

She got to her feet with a groan and pop of her knees, and hobbled over to a nearby bookshelf. Her lithe fingers skimmed over the backs of a few books, and eventually pulled one out. She popped it open and flipped through a number of pages, then handed it to you to observe.

On the page was an ukiyo-e painting of a man settled in seiza, flowing kimono robes pooling around him. On his left stood a bronze lantern, unlit, its chain looped neatly in coils under its base. You realized that it was your lantern. 

“Your ancestor, Yoshitsune,” she tapped on his face, “had the ability to create any item the good spirits deemed necessary to ensure his victory in battle.”

“Fascinating…I had no idea. What about Gojo, then?”

Gojo made a noise.

You lifted your head from the book. “What?”

He crossed his arms, tapping his toe on the soft rug of Aisha’s living room. “This is boring. I didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

Your temperature spiked with anger. “You–”

“Of course,” the Elder interrupted you. “My apologies. My dear here,” she motioned towards you, “will give you a tour of our modest town. Won’t you, dear?” She asked rhetorically.

“I–”

At the way she pried your fingers off the book and snapped it shut, you promptly closed your mouth and swallowed down any objections.

“I’d be happy to,” you forced a positive inflection. You didn’t want to leave, you wanted to learn more (Aisha had a way of making your grown ass interested in anything), but you knew when to bow your head and accept a task, even if it was one you despised.

Tomorrow. You’d pester her tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, the stranger would be gone.

«___° ° °___»

Surprisingly, he was obedient in trailing after you, a bit like a duckling.

You expected more whining, more complaining, more bitching. Your home, after all, did not seem like a place that would hold his attention for any length of time. Though, you supposed that was accurate, since it was you he was keenly captivated by.

It made your stomach churn.

So, you tried to take the spotlight off of yourself. “How long are you staying?”

He shrugged one shoulder languidly. “I was gonna leave as soon as I got rid of that cursed spirit, but since you already killed it…might as well stay. A mini vacation, y’know? I definitely need one, the higher-ups have been yapping their old, greasy heads off again. It’s so annoying. They talk and talk and talk, going on and on. Can’t stand it. They never shut up.”

Tongue held between your teeth, you let him go on, ignoring your desire to stick a rock in his mouth. Currently, you planned to show him the boring spots around town, confident you could scare him into leaving early.

“Peachy,” you muttered once he paused to take a damn breath. “Great, well, I’ll show you around, then drop you off at an inn–”

“Ooooor, I can just stay with you.”

You coughed on your spit. “Pardon?”

He kicked a pebble. “I mean, it’s way more convenient. We won’t have to cut our conversations short, and we can get to know each other better.”

The lilt at the end of his sentence sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m way older than you, it’d be impro–”

He stopped in front of you. “I don’t care.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “Gojo��”

“I’m serious,” he asserted. “I don’t mind that you’re older.”

“That’s not– I mind.”

Gojo raised his hands placatingly, almost as if surrendering. “Don’t worry, I won’t leech off’a ya. I’ll compensate you fairly for housing me. As thanks.”

You snarled. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You should come with me, back to Tokyo,” Gojo said. “We always need more sorcerers. Strong sorcerers.”

Whiplash. From one topic to the next, never giving you a chance to find ground to stand on.

A bubble of something trickled up your throat. Hesitance? Distaste? Anxiety? Something that made acid sting your esophagus. Your anger dissipated, replaced with disorientation. “Oh,” you responded dumbly, lagging behind. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

“Why? It’s so much better than this place,” he insisted, jeering at your surroundings. “More interesting. Plus, I’ll be there.”

That’s exactly the issue.

Your eye twitched in offense. He knew exactly how to rile you up, and it was working, to your chagrin. The constant turbulence was throwing you off balance, pissing you off. “This is my home. I won’t stand by and let you insult it simply because our way of life is different from yours. Like I said: thanks, but no, thanks.”

The boy remained silent, expression neutral, and it had nervousness twisting in the pit of your gut. You’d rather he yell at you, shame you, call you dumb or old or what have you. So long as he didn’t examine you the way he did now, unresponsive, biding his time. Picking you apart down to the molecular level, separating your atoms until you were strewn apart, latticework for him to admire.

A dissection done by your shrine god would have been less invasive. Their hands wouldn’t have felt as abrasive while digging through your guts, their nails wouldn’t have scratched your cold, stiff arms and legs. Not the same way Gojo’s glare peeled your layers off one by one, time taken to examine each and every slice with diligent fixation.

Your god would take your Strength, and return it to the world, allowing it to one day resurface so it may return to your reincarnation when the time came.

Instinctively, you knew that Gojo would take it, and keep it for himself.

He’d wrap his hands around the flickering flame of your soul, squeeze the heart of your very being, just to feel your warmth. He’d search through your body to find what his greed most desired, and cling to it, breathing in the scent of ash and cracking cherry bark that released a sweet scent as they burned, one too enticing for him to admire only in passing. 

He’d take your tsuri-dōrō and let it burn everything until only you remained, cupped in his palms, held too high above the smoking soil to consider jumping off.

Not unless you wished to succumb to the blaze yourself.

You waited.

Waited, and waited, and waited, apprehension growing, sweat forming at your hairline and slipping down your temple as you anticipated the explosion that would follow your rejection, the burst of emotion too violent to keep contained inside a body that never knew how to back down, a mind that was never told no.

He opened his mouth, you held your breath–

“Just give it some thought, okay?” Gojo smiled, his head tilting to the side benevolently. “It’s an open offer.”

–nothing.

No burst, no violent meltdown, no tantrum from the spoiled brat. No demands, no threats, none of your expectations met.

It should relieve you. To some degree, it did.

A bigger part of you, the part that had bundled up energy in preparation for an argument that wouldn’t happen and had no outlet anymore, tensed up in a brief twist of panic.

He wasn’t calm, not at all. Anyone else, he could easily fool, bearing that charming grin and nonchalant stance, his tone easy and cheery, accepting the rejection with grace and humility. Anyone that wasn’t you.

Your sensitivity to mahou meant you were painfully aware of how strongly his flared.

At your refusal, it swelled fiercely, gasoline poured over unlit charcoal. It came like a heavy downpour, a cataclysmic cleansing of the sin that infested the ground you walked on, the tree canopies you hid under. A freezing rush in the dead of summer, frostbite nipping at your fingertips, craving your heat, the iron of your blood, to feast on your vitality.

Then, it was gone.

Its swift arrival was followed by an equally swift departure, leaving behind a vacuum, energy sucked out too fast. It staggered you, your equilibrium briefly interrupted, confusion and fear making you dizzy.

But, he kept smiling, pretending nothing was wrong.

You knew better than to point it out, to mention his temper, the displeasure you knew paced back and forth, a caged animal that salivated and rubbed its side into the bars, knowing it was a matter of time until it was freed, given permission to hunt its promised meal.

You bit down your prey response, the temptation you had to fawn, to placate. Apologize, tell him you changed your mind, you’d go, so long as he didn’t destroy your home.

You’re a fighter, for fuck’s sake. An Exorcist. You’re better than this.

You stifled the need to say that aloud. To assure him you weren’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” you said through your teeth, a strained simper. “I’ll think about it.”

«___° ° °___»

The moment you unlocked the door to your house, Gojo made a beeline for your couch, dropping into it with a weary sigh. Comfortable, right at home, like he belonged.

Just make it through the night, you tried to convince yourself. Have to make it through the night. Then, he’ll be gone.

Cracking his knuckles, he stretched out his long legs and tucked his hands behind his head. “Thanks for housing me.”

The cheek, the gall. You had trouble believing you’d somehow let the kid coerce you into permitting him entry into your private space. What would your Chichi think of you now? You mourned, grumbling as you kicked off your shoes and stacked them neatly in the genkan, scowling at the way he let his fly every which way. Because you weren’t raised to be petty (though you wanted to be), you gathered his sneakers and aligned them, too.

“Yup,” you replied sarcastically, popping the p. “My pleasure.”

He ran you ragged, practically dragging you through the streets, stopping to eat at your favorite restaurant (he paid, claimed it was ‘his treat’. The restaurant might no longer be your favorite). He demanded to see the shrine, the gift shop – “we don’t have a gift shop.” – the beach – “I’m not going swimming with you.” – anything he could put his mind to.

Frankly, you were exhausted, and wanted him out of your home, but you wanted your bed more.

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” you told him flatly. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

He whinged. “What, won’t let me in your bed?”

“I’m not giving you my bed,” you spat out grumpily as you tugged open the hallway closet and tunneled through it in search of a blanket. If you had it your way, you’d let him cover himself in toilet paper for the night, but your Mama raised you better than that. Unfortunately.

He mumbled under his breath, “That’s not what I said…”

Quilt in hand, you blinked at him, not having heard him properly. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he swept away your curiosity in a sing-songy tone. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You waddled over to the couch, not quite able to see exactly where you were going until you dropped the pile of fabric onto the corner seat of the couch. “Oh, uh. It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

Wordlessly, he got up and vanished into the room. The light flicked on, the door closed, and you were alone.

Visibly, the tension in your body melted, stress you didn’t know you were holding. Your shoulders slumped, and you were able to breathe, conscious of his absence. Air bolted back into the room, uninhibited now that his stifling, dominating presence wasn’t there to consume it all for himself.

For a few sacred, precious minutes, you stood there, absorbing the peace of existing without the ghostly sensation of Gojo breathing down your neck.

The sound of the tap turning on drew you out of your reverie, and you busied yourself. Unfolding the blanket, laying it across the sofa to act as both a sheet and comforter Gojo could fold over himself, propping up a nearby throw pillow, trying not to think about whatever it was he was doing in your bathroom. Pretending. Pretending all of this was normal. A familiar guest visiting from the mainland, one that acted normal, looked normal, sounded normal, was normal.

It only lasted so long.

The door opened, and out he came, yawning loudly. Round sunglasses still in place.

His hair was mussed up, face ever so slightly damp, water droplets clinging to a few strands of pure white. Fresh, ready for bed.

Like you, he was pretending. Whether for your sake, or not, you didn’t bother trying to understand.

His mahou continued to flow through his veins, primed, never released. His energy bounded off of him in waves, lazy, seafoam lapping leisurely along the beach’s shoreline. Sand darkened by the salt and water, then lightening as the murky green receded.

While you knew that he and his sorcerer kind functioned differently from you and your Exorcist kind, you were certain that his energy was distinctly abnormal. Never resting, never sated. It salivated, greedy, intent to devour anything he got his hands on.

If you weren’t careful, it’d be you he gorged himself on, ingesting you, flesh and bone and sinew and all. 

“Man, I’m wiped,” he lied, stretching his arms high above his head. If he stood on his toes, his fingertips would brush the ceiling. 

Your lips tugged at the corners into a flat, stiff line. “Good timing. I finished setting up the couch for you. You can go ahead and sleep now.”

As he passed you, he tapped your ass twice. “Thanks, pretty.”

You squeaked, covering your backside, but he appeared none the wiser to your plight. Or, purposefully ignorant.

Just overly friendly, he doesn’t know any better. Spoiled brat, young, a kid.

Whatever excuse you needed to comfort yourself, you sought out, jaw wound shut. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow.

The bearer of the Six Eyes plopped down onto his makeshift bed, adjusting to get comfortable, and sighed like an old dog. Happy. Right at home.

“G’night,” he drawled.

“Goodnight, Gojo.”

 He grumbled something, but you were far past caring, not bothering to stop and ask him to repeat himself. Hurriedly, you locked yourself in your bathroom, hands braced on your sink, lights off. The thought of looking at yourself was unbearable, facing how much a 20-something-year-old unraveled you as easily as plucking a loose string on a knitted sweater, rows upon rows of destroyed for mere curiosity. Vapid, temporary interest.

Fuck, you couldn’t wait for him to be leave, so you could erase him from your memories using bleach and a wire brush.

Gulping down your loathing, you flicked the switch, and dared to meet the foe residing in the mirror.

She posed the same way you did, skin pulled taut over her knuckles, bones protruding from how tightly she gripped the wooden edge. Bags darkened the crescents under her eyes, cheeks sunken, scleras bloodshot. Were you a stranger, a friendly neighbor, you would have asked her if she was sick, bid her to sit down, wrapped her fingers around a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea.

But, there was nobody who could help you now, give you that comfort. Your Mama and Chichi were on the other side of the village, enjoying having the house to themselves ever since you moved out a decade ago. Sunday brunches were a given, those weekly visits ritualistic and necessary and wanted. 

Showing up uninvited, so late at night, a stranger left behind in your home?

They’d have your head on a pike.

Bear with it. You were an adult, an Exorcist. Gojo was just some runt from the mainland.

You’ll be okay.

Won’t you?

Massaging your temple to encourage your blooming headache to go away already, you reached out with your free hand to grab your toothbrush, only to halt dead in your tracks.

It was wet.

A cold shiver swarmed you, raising hairs along your arms and nape, goosebumps forming.

He–

He used your toothbrush? Your toothbrush?

It– sure, you forgot about getting him a new one, but surely he would have known to ask for one. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to breath heavily through your nose, slow and deep inhales. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fucking fine. It’s a toothbrush. You were lucky that you had spares, and even if you didn’t, you were able to use your finger in a worst-case scenario.

Pointedly avoiding the now tainted toothbrush, you rifled through the top drawer of the counter, locating a brand new one. You ripped open the packaging, ran it under the water, added toothpaste, and scoured at your teeth aggressively. You went at them like you hated them, like there was blood stuck in them, drenching the wells of your molars, staining the enamel. Behind your incisors, on your cuspids, to the back of your tongue, gag reflex triggered.

You brushed, and brushed, and brushed, panting when you finished. Fluoride in your stomach, stinging your nasopharynx, the cost to feel clean, at least here.

Had you felt safer, were there not a stranger down the hall, you would have sat down in the shower and let scalding hot water wash away your revulsion and make you anew, burn away the dirt of where he dared to touch you, of where his eyes strayed.

Choking out the toothpaste, mouth aching from the cold water you punished yourself with, you nearly clawed at your face to rinse away the oil and grime of the day, wanting to be done already.

The sooner you were in bed and fell asleep, the sooner the next day would come, and you’d be free again. Free from those eyes, that mahou, that person. If he could be called that.

if he could be considered human.

Tenderly, you opened the door and peeked down the hall, finding Gojo’s back to you, fast asleep.

Thank fuck.

Cautious as a mouse, you tiptoed to your room, skillfully avoiding all the creaky spots in the floor. You didn’t feel safe ‘til you shut and locked the door, which you leaned back onto. Gods, you were exhausted. The weight of the day hung on your shoulders, causing your feet to drag and stumble over the pile of clothes on the floor.

Bewildered, you looked down, and found a shirt, tank top, and pair of pants strewn across the floor, tossed haphazardly.

Why were they on the ground?

You didn’t recall having left them there, but then again, you weren’t the most tidy person, and tended to be forgetful. Maybe, you dropped them on your way out that morning, unworried, figuring you’d toss them in your hamper when you got home. 

It rubbed you the wrong way, scales made of teeth that shredded into you, but…who else, if not you? Gojo never left the bathroom, the door remained closed the entire time he occupied it. You didn’t own any pets, but it wouldn’t have been the first time a stray cat got in. Though, you didn’t see or hear any critters scuttling around. A check of the hamper indicated that nothing hid inside it, either.

There was nobody else to blame.

The conclusion felt wrong, yet you came up with no other ideas.

So, all you could do was pick them up from their resting place on the floor and toss them into the hamper, alongside the clothes you were wearing. 

Where you usually took your time getting ready for bed, liking to pamper yourself. the sensation of being watched hadn’t left you since Gojo arrived on your island. The less time you were naked for, the better, in your opinion.

Quickly, you swapped out your blouse for a loose, oversized T-shirt and slipped on a clean pair of panties. Normally, you didn’t wear more to bed, disliking the sensation of bottoms rolling up your legs while you slept, but you needed to put on something more than just underwear. You were safe in your room, but it wasn’t enough.

You searched through your dresser, tugging out the pair of sleeping shorts you found and drawing them up your legs, over your hips, finishing them off with a small bow at the front.

There. Better.

Sort of.

Not much, actually.

It’d have to do. You were sleepy, tired of the day, threadbare. Your bed called to you, and you had no intention of ignoring it.

The sheets welcomed you soothingly, embracing your form in that familiar hold you were longing for, coveting. Fluffy comforter, downy pillows, comfortable mattress, everything you required to smooth down your hackles, at last able to lower your guard. You were safe. Safe. Safe.

Images danced on your ceiling, hazy recollections and fantasies, absentminded planning, zealous to have your individuality returned to you. Dreams of taking a day off, visiting the docks, hiding from your student that would inevitably drag you to a nearby field to ‘train’, AKA watch you swing around your tsuri-dōrō. A day to yourself. All you needed was a day to yourself, and everything would be good again.

Right as your lids began to slip shut, succumbing to your exhaustion, something pressed against your lips.

Soft, warm, plush, pillowy. 

Your eyes snapped open in an instant and you were sitting up, pushing away whatever was touching you, leaning over you. 

In the dim, silver light of the moon, you saw him.

Gojo Satoru.

His sunglasses weren’t on, but, god, you fucking wished they were. Without them, there was nothing to conceal the horror that greeted you upon making eye contact.

Blue.

They were so, so, viscerally blue. Wide, shimmering, glossy. Fairy crystals that shone the same way the moon did; they imbibed all the light in the room, practically glowing from the sheer vim they contained alone, digesting the slivers of night. 

You gasped, scooting back minutely. “What are you doing?”

How did he get in? You didn’t hear your door open, and furthermore, it was locked. It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t–

The door’s open.

It was open, swung wide to show the lightless hallway, a chasm left in dearth of his mahou. 

“I’m kissing you.”

“Wh– I know that,” you snapped, eyes shifting back to him. “I’m asking why you’re kissing me.”

He blinked, considering you as if you were a few degrees short of intelligence. “I like you.”

Fuck. This is what you were worried about, on some level. You should have known. People always seemed to enjoy putting you on a pedestal, unconcerned for the discomfort it caused you. You weren’t someone to be idolized, not like this, by someone like him.

“Look, Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrected. “Call me Satoru.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Look, Gojo,” you emphasized. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I’m not– this,” you pointed between yourself and him, “isn’t happening. You’re too young for me, we met today, and I’m– I’m not interested, alright?”

He frowned. “I told you that I don’t care how old you are.”

“I care,” you specified. “I care that I’m much older than you. It’s– it’s wrong. Okay?”

Lashes of pearl fluttered. “Why? I’m above the age of consent. I am consenting.”

You exhaled, growing frustrated. “That’s not the point. It’s not about the age of consent, it’s about the differences in maturity, the power imbalance. Besides, I’m not consenting.”

He kept quiet for a long moment, taking in your features, processing your little tirade. Outwardly, he gave no reaction, and you didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

But, he started to lean back, retreating from you, and you breathed out the air you were holding in relief.

Idly, defeated, he dipped his head. “I get it.”

You relaxed, muscles losing their tension. “Good, I’m glad.”

“You’re playing hard to get.”

Before you could react, he was on you, tackling you back onto your bed.

“Get off of me!” You screeched, shoving at his chest, trying desperately to lift his weight from your body.

His size was deceptive, his might hidden under layers of black cloth. You were older, you had more experience, you were supposed to be stronger. You were a teacher, you were an Exorcist, for fuck’s sake.

Yet, it took him no effort at all to pin you down, knees thrown over either side of your waist, weight settled to keep you immobilized. You struggled valiantly, fighting with all your might to dislodge him. Nothing. He didn’t so much as budge.

“I can play hard, too,” he promised, lips split, harsh pants of excitement escaping him. “That what you need, huh? Someone to knock you down a peg?”

You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed his hand against your lips, a demented look glimmering in those terrible orbs of his. You tasted the salt of his flesh, dug your teeth into his palm, but garnered no reaction from him; none aside from the low groan that rattled in the base of his chest, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Shh, shh,” he hushed. “What’ll your neighbors think if they came in and saw this? You, in bed, with me?”

You froze, heart leaping to your throat. No, no, he wouldn’t.

“Are you really gonna let them see you taking advantage of me?” Slowly, he pulled his hand away, smirking down at you.

You peeled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, your maw suddenly painfully dry. “They won’t believe you. It’s my word against yours. I grew up with these people, they know me.”

“Did you know, most of the time, people are completely unaware that their loved one is a murderer?”

Your lip trembled. “What?”

He nodded solemnly, pouting. Degrading. Condescending. “It’s true. When interviewed, family, friends, they all say they had no idea, their loved one would never. They know them, after all. So, they’d know if their father was a murderer.”

“What are you getting at?”

He leaned closer, too close, he was going to swallow you whole. One hand toyed with the hem of your sleep shirt, twisting it, smoothing it out. “Everyone has secrets. Who’s to say this isn’t yours? Liking younger men?”

“I don’t like younger men.”

“How are they supposed to know? All they’ll see is you sharing your bed with someone who is too young for you. Your words.”

You were torn.

He was lying, manipulating you, scaring you with the thought of being ostracized by your community for something that wasn’t true. You knew it wasn’t true, you were certain that your community would know it wasn’t true.

But, how were you supposed to explain that he overpowered you? This young man, in his early twenties at most. Yes, he was strong, but you had age, experience. You should have been able to fight him off without issue.

You couldn’t.

He found no fight when he dug the spindly lengths of his digits into the edge of your shorts, and yanked.

The fabric tore on its way down your thighs, jolting and exposing more and more skin in short bursts as he tugged the material off, off, off. He spared it no mercy, disregarding your sniffles of protest. You could hear him mumbling that he’d buy you a new pair, as many as you wanted, better, prettier, as if that was what you were upset about. 

His nails scratched at the bared flesh of your legs, merciless in his efforts to strip you, fighting against his odd positioning over you that he didn’t want to change. You squirmed, kicking out as best as you could. It freed one foot in the process, and he decided that was all he needed.

You blinked, and he was between your thighs, hands hooking under your knees to tug you closer, wrapping them around his lithe waist. To your absolute, utter horror, he pressed his hips directly into yours, the seam of his uniform digging into the split of your center, and you felt it. Him.

Hard. Undeniably, ruthlessly solid, flesh turned to stone. It froze you in the midst of your struggle, and he took the opportunity to grind into you, firm, unforgiving. He rolled against you, huffs and wimpish grunts spilling from his lips, and your panic was brought back tenfold. You jerked and twisted with renewed effort, trying to claw at his arms, his shoulders; wrap your fingers around his throat and squeeze until he went limp, until his chest jolted, then stilled.

For all your exertion, it did nothing to deter him. In fact, he moaned when your nails caught on the soft skin of his stomach under the rucked up edge of his top, dragging angry, vicious red lines into the pale give of the muscle beneath.

“God, I can feel you, so warm,” he hissed through his teeth, snowy lashes squeezed shut as he focused his energy into leeching the heat from your core.

Distressed, you whined, a pathetic noise unbefitting of you. Too ugly, too weak, too unlike yourself. This wasn’t happening, it simply wasn’t.

“Look at that,” he purred. “Wet for me already. Knew you were pretending.”

You startled. “I’m not!”

He set his finger against the gusset of your underwear and slid it upwards, through the natural dampness that had gathered there. He must have mistaken it for arousal.

His teeth shone white, canines sharp, primed to bite into your jugular and shake, rip, tear. Snap tendons and gnaw muscle. Eat you.

“‘Course, you are, don’t have to lie,” he patted your hip contemptuously. “I know I’m pretty. I know the effect I have on women, it’s okay, I won’t judge you. I like it.”

You inhaled to berate and lambaste and criticize him, but he didn’t let you start. He rolled his finger around your clothed clit, and all that came out of you was a pitchy, shaken noise. He focused on it, jabbing it, and was convinced your yelps of discomfort were pleasure. It was evident, his nescience, on how your body worked, what felt good for you. Granted, you doubted it’d feel good even if he did know what he was doing.

His impatience won out when he removed his hand after less than thirty seconds of scraping over where your clit was, missing half the time. Antsy, he hooked the band of your panties, tugging at the cotton material more and more discontentedly until he grabbed at it along the stitching on the side and pried it apart, thread and fibers splitting and popping.

“Hey!” You bayed.

His lips left a wet smooch on your temple, and you cringed. “It’s okay, it’s alright, I’ll buy you more. Or, better yet, don’t wear any in the first place.”

His fingers slid through your folds and you coughed on a hiccup of surprise, jerking away from him. He fastened his hand to your hip, keeping you from going any further. Hell, this was pure hell. Nothing less, nothing more; raw suffering in the form of a man intent on dragging you down to the depths with him. He’d carve a home from the molten rock, a cubby made with his own two hands, and he’d bury you in it, somewhere you’d never be able to escape and leave him.

Two fingers propped at your cunt, then pushed in, slow and piercing. You sucked on your teeth, face scrunching in discomfort as the long things poked and jabbed at your soft internals, deeper and deeper. He didn’t stop at the first, nor second joint, sorrowfully. He kept going until he physically couldn't anymore, stuffed to the knuckles, the knobby things barely grazing the nub at the top of your vulva.

You hated it with every fiber of your being.

It was uncomfortable, unpleasant, and so very far from enjoyable. Oh, but who were you to fool yourself? He wasn’t doing this for you, of course not, no matter how hard he tried to convince you that he was. That he wanted you to feel pleasure, sweet and gratifying. When he fingered you, it resembled a clinical examination more than a sexual act, the kind where you and the doctor avoided looking at each other as they tested your pelvic muscles and checked for abnormalities.

He pushed his fingers in and out, not bothering to curl them, scissor them, do anything special at all with them. They were just…there, scoring lines into your pussy, neutral. 

Your relief upon their removal was short-lived. His hand fumbled with the hem of his pants, allowing you to notice that his belt had already been loosened, button and zipper undone, pulled low. Blue and white striped boxers sat on display for a brief period, then were pulled under his stiff length, revealing it to you.

Long, not especially thick, curved upwards, the tip an angry pink that neared on red.

Fuck no. No, no, no, this was not happening, not to you.

You might as well have been fighting against a stone golem, though, for how little he reacted to your attempts at escape. He paid no mind to your spitting, your thrashing, your begging pleas for him to not do this to you, to reconsider, your assurances that you’d forgive him if he’d just stop right this instant!

If you didn’t know any better, to him, you were nothing more than the annoying buzzing of a fly trying to get his attention. Something for him to swat away, squash uncaringly.

Your heart dropped to your toes when you felt the tip of his leaking cock notch against your unprepared hole, your chest seizing, your lungs collapsing beneath the sheer weight of your raw, unfiltered fear.

Then, with no consideration for you, he shoved forward, and seated himself to the root in one vile, painful thrust.

You didn’t realize you were crying until your voice broke, splintering apart in your throat.

Above you, Gojo was panting, whining, practically trembling where he sat, pelvis flush to yours. Your spine arched off the bed, burning pain pulsing inside your core from the forced stretch. You were no prude, but it’d been so long since you’d lain with anyone. You were barely wet enough for a sheen to show on your folds, let alone take anything inside you without the careful prep he lacked the skill to partake in.

Gojo didn’t care for it, evidently.

He was too impatient, too needy, too eager. He yearned too much, and didn’t stop to think about what he wanted, just that he wanted it now.

You sobbed, hiccuping, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes to race to your temples. He cooed at the sight, leaning forward, closer to your face. The movement carried him further, his tip nudging against the squishy ring of your cervix, and you wailed.

“Oh, shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” he purred. “I’m here now. You don’t have to worry, I’m not going anywhere. You have me.”

“Pull out– pull out!” You yelled at him, pounding against his chest.

He grinned. “Want me to move already? D’aw, who am I to deny my woman?”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, no, no–!”

Your imploration came a moment too late, and fell on ears that were never going to listen to you.

Satoru drew back until the ridge of his glans tugged against the thin webbing of your entrance, and then, he barged back into you, splitting your walls apart to make room for himself.

The friction was agonizing, unforgiving. It scraped against you, sandpaper on fragile glass, painstakingly etched and painted patterns and designs worn away in rapid passes by an uncaring hand. He was intent on erasing the marks placed on you by time, by the ones you grew up with, loved, hated, missed, and replace them entirely with stains made in his visage.

Tattoos you’d never be able to remove; hundreds of eyes with endlessly cerulean depths that sucked in any unfortunate to see them. Lines and crosses and nooses that, no matter how hard you scrub, would continue to choke you forevermore. 

You opened your eyes, vision blurred with tears, and startled to find pitch black voids.

Accretion disks of swirling tanzanite orbited pools of bottomless ink, meres that spanned miles across, nearly consuming the cornflower of their enclosure. Were it not for the tight rings keeping them confined, you were sure they’d spill and flood the world, drown you in their infinite expanses, under their waves. It’d fill your lungs until they burst, pour into your veins until red bled out and left you suffocating in the eternal void that was Gojo Satoru.

His inexperience shown through in the rough, jerky movements of his hips, the way every other thrust seemed to nudge into that one spot that made electricity race through your joints, while the ones in between punched directly into the sensitive nerves at the furthest point inside you, fornices bullied and bruised.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, landing in wet splats on your chest and collarbone where he hovered, hot breaths fanning across your tacky cheeks. You cringed at the sensation, trying to angle your head away.

Oh, but Satoru – he only saw that as an invitation, one he had no qualms about accepting.

He buried his face into the side of your neck, latched onto the skin over your fluttering pulse, and sucked. Hard.

You sobbed, spine arching, forlorn as he branded you in the form of broken capillaries and teeth-shaped indents. He suckled, cruel and vile, slobbering onto you like a mutt. Purebred, but he was no better than the beasts he put down, rotten to the core, that was the only thing that could explain this, him.

He kissed his way up your jaw to your cheeks, nipping at them; to your lobe, licking into the shell of your ear, and you recoiled from him. His chest vibrated with a hoarse chuckle, enamored with your violent indignation. He sought to lock lips with you, but all his humor fell away when you avoided his mouth, upper lip curled into a sneer.

A hand roughly grabbed your jaw, pressuring you to look at him, the anger that marred his unfairly beautiful features. Brows pinched, eyes narrowed, fire licking up the column of his spine to spread like poison on his tongue.

“Do not run away from me,” he snarled, nose almost tip-to-tip with yours, invading. “You’re gonna kiss me back, or I’ll get the entire fuckin’ town in here and make sure they know you forced yourself on me. Got it?”

You drank down your antipathy and resentment for him, aware now that, if he was willing to overpower someone over a decade his senior for his own pleasure and gain, he’d absolutely make good on his threat. If he was willing to ruin your body, he was more than willing to ruin your life.

What choice did you have but to open your mouth and let him spit into it? How could you do anything but give in, let him mash your lips together, let him shove his tongue down your throat and feed on you until all that remained of you were bones and teeth and hollow eye sockets?

The basin of your mahou hemorrhaging through the puncture wound in your chest, run through a sieve to gather the flecks of gold and red blood cells that comprised your entire being. Plasma leaching from your marrow, spilling into a worthless puddle on dry soil to water a flora long dead. Lungs suctioned flat to your thoracic vertebrae, organs shriveled, body reduced to a useless shell, a pitiful imitation of life.

For once, you blessed a man for his inexperience, as it meant Satoru was done with you in a couple minutes. They stretched forever and ever, vanishing beyond the horizon, but it was done, he was done. He spilled inside you, but that was an issue for a separate time, something else to be dealt with when you weren’t under the body of a demon wearing the skin of a man. Evil embodied.

Should have exorcised him as soon as you saw him, you shamed yourself.

But, it was over. He would get off you, and you–

You startled when you felt the pad of his thumb nudging at your clit, uneven back-and-forth swipes that halfway resembled circles, and started sliding in and out of you once more. 

“Gotta make– gotta make a wo-woman squirt if ya wanna – fuck, you’re so warm – wanna knock her up. That’s what he–” he choked, stilling for a second, then harshly pounded into you out of the blue. 

It shocked you, your mouth dropping into a silent yowl, tears sprinkling your clumped lashes like weeping stardust.

“That’s what he told me,” he spat out, rage flashing in his eyes, across the furrow of his brow. “Maybe, not everythin’ was a lie, eh? Maybe, he was tellin’ me the truth about somethin’.”

He was gone from this world, you could tell. It was in the way he no longer saw you, the woman he’d shoved onto her own bed, the person who’d taken pity on him, housed him, taught him how she lived, survived. He had this far away look, this seething hatred, this pulsing need, this agonizing sorrow that ate him from the inside out. A wound that scabbed, but never healed, always present, always twitching in time with his heart, reminding him of its presence.

Heartbreak.

Gone as quickly as it came, he was seeing you again, and you wished beyond everything that he was still in that distant headspace of his, where you didn’t exist, where you could pretend none of this was real. A bad dream. A demon that slithered through the cracked-open window to infest your mind and feed off your nightmares.

His eyes made that impossible, sadly. All they did was remind you, assure you, that this was as real as ever.

Slowly, he leaned down, lashes never fluttering. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, breath fanning into the conch, and he spoke.

“Let’s find out together, yeah?”

«___° ° °___»

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he wrapped one of his arms around his neck and pressed on the elbow to stretch it, taking the opportunity to scratch his back while he was at it. “You’re gonna tell that little group of yours that you’re coming back to Tokyo with me–”

You bristled. “No.”

“–or, I’ll tell them that you took advantage of me while I was sleeping.”

Nausea roiled in your stomach. “You wouldn’t.”

He leveled you. “I will, and I won’t feel bad about it.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out, call him out on his bluff, but you knew he wasn’t lying. Saliva coated your mouth, and you had to swallow to hold back the urge to spill acid onto the floor.

When you spoke, your voice was far too soft, too broken. A pitiable whimper. “Please, don’t.”

The boy shrugged casually. “I’m being nice, you know, by giving you a choice. It’s up to you. I’m happy to do it either way.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn’t flinch when he cupped your jaw as tenderly as he would a lover’s, swiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ll take good care of you, promise,” he swore. “Make sure you want for nothing. Give you all you want. I have more than enough money for both of us. For a whole family. Whaddya say, hm?”

You never did have a choice, did you?

Not from the moment you were born on this island, not when you obtained your Strength, not when you were trained to be an Exorcist, or when Akinori attached themselves to your hip in spite of your vehement refusal to tutor them.

And, not from this.

From becoming Gojo’s.

Having gone into autopilot, you obeyed his orders, fearing what he’d do if you didn’t. No need to pack anything, he said, I’ll just buy you new stuff at home. Better than these rags. Come on, let’s go. Early birds and worms and all that.

The village was as peaceful as ever, this time of day.

The fishermen had set out to the sea about an hour earlier, right before dawn broke through the nebulous heavens. Those that stayed behind roused late, taking the chance to catch a bit more shut eye.

You, too, would have been enjoying a long rest, were it not for the tidal wave that loomed on the horizon, threatening, waiting for you. White-crested waves, foam spitting up from their roiling motions; an endless abyss that pined to swallow you whole. It whispered that you had a choice, an order to give, one it would happily deliver on.

Sacrifice yourself, or let all you love be washed into the ocean, your own personal Atlantis.

Akinori, Mirio, and the Elder also weren’t able to enjoy the extra rest, much to your guilty conscience.

They stood in front of you in a row, each wearing their own miens of disappointment, of hurt, of grief.

Aisha glared at you, really. You’d made a promise to protect this land, your home, after all. And, now, you were going back on your word, your vow. She had every right to despise you, to scorn you. She didn’t, though, you knew. You wished she did. She saw right through you, past the cracks in your façade, the lies you fed her about wanting to learn more about demons and be stronger for them, better.

To save the world.

In reality, it was to save only yourself.

Please, understand, you begged silently. There’s no other way.

Mirio had her hands clutched in front of her, gazing anywhere but at you. Her brows were pinched in the center, and you yearned to lean forward and press your thumb to the wrinkle forming there, to brush it away with that signature cheeky smirk of yours, and a caution that she’d age faster if she made faces like that. 

You kept your hands, stained and bloody, to yourself, not wishing to taint her with your sin.

Akinori appeared uncharacteristically serious. Severe.

Gone was their impish demeanor, their mischievous nature. In its place sat an emptiness, a chasm formed too soon; a ball of ice drained before it could freeze its core to keep itself whole. Your heart ached for them, your stomach twisted into knots, your throat squeezing tighter and tighter until you were sure that your vocal cords would burst from your neck.

“You’re really going, then,” they said. A statement, not a question.

Still, you nodded.

“There’s so much to learn out there, beyond Kami-shima,” you reasoned, lying through your teeth. The words tasted like ash and acid on your tongue. “Power we never knew existed. Imagine it – I’ll get stronger, then we’ll never have to worry about demons invading our home ever again, yeah?”

“You promise?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted Gojo standing a distance away. Far enough that he resembled a stick figure, but still close enough for you to feel his stare burning into your back.

You swallowed, and faced Nori again, whispering to them, needing to ensure it stays between you and them, and nobody else, especially not Gojo.

“You have my heart,” you said. “Keep it safe for me until I can get it back, okay?”

They peered deep into you, glancing between your eyes, trying to seek out the deeper meaning in your words – if there was any. You simultaneously hoped they would and wouldn’t find it; a selfish desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, and the knowledge that they’re safer knowing nothing about you. Forgetting about you.

Nori nodded once, tersely.

You took that as your cue to leave.

Taking your hands off their shoulders, you drew in a deep breath, let it out, and gave the trio a smile you could only hope was semi-convincing.

“Don’t wait up for me, yeah?” You laughed. It sounded strained. “I’ll see you all again.”

Whether or not they knew it was a lie, you said nothing more, and didn’t stay to hear what they would say. It would break your heart worse than the whole interaction already had, worse than the knowledge that your chances of actually returning home were slim to none.

Picking up a light jog, you left them behind, joining Gojo at his side. He didn’t hesitate to pull out a hand from his pocket and link it with yours, fingers intertwining and squeezing until the bone inside ached.

He smiled innocently up at you, anyway. “Finally done?”

You glanced over your shoulder, hoping to see that your little family had already left, praying they hadn’t. Uncertainty over your own emotions fizzled under the surface when you saw they were there, watching you, unmoving.

For what you knew would be the last time, you mouthed goodbye to them, and closed your eyes, blocking them from sight.

“Yeah,” you coughed out.

His smile could be heard through his voice. “Great, I was waiting ages. You talk way too much, y’know? You’re gonna love Tokyo. I’ll take you to all the good places…”

You tuned out his voice, letting him ramble to his content as he guided you away from the village, away from Kami-shima, away from the one home you knew. Where you were born, where you lived, and where you were certain you would die.

When he squeezed your hand, you brought yourself back to the present, longing to sink into a void. To disappear, never have to deal with this, with him.

When did you ever have a choice, though? The moment he saw you, it was over for you.

“There’s no place like home, right?” He prodded, poking your side with his elbow.

“Mhm,” you agreed with a rigid growl, clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth. “No place like home.”

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AN: thank you for reading :D I hope you enjoyed ♥

[blackenedsnow]

Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”